The Sun.
London, England, 1846-01-02 00:00:00

As to the eulogium w hich follows, it is as empty as it
is mawkish ; and it requires much more logical and
argumentative powers than are possessed by the
author of the " New Timon," or even by Colonel
Mitchell himself, to prove that the " iron image" of
Wellington would indeed look gallantly beside
"Marlborough's tomb, or lost Napoleon's throne !"
For a picture of any one but O'Connell none could
mistake the following forcible lines :
" But who, scarce less by every gazer eyed,
Walks yonder, swinging with a stalwart stride?
With that vast bulk of chest and limb :issign'd
So oft to men who subjugate their kind;
So sturdy Cromwell push'd broad-shoulder'd on;
So burly Luther breasted Babylon;
So brawny Cleon bawld his Agora clown;
And large-limb'd Mahmoud cluteb'd a Prophet's
crown!
Ay, mark him well! the schemer's subtle eye
The stage mime's plastic lip your search defy.
The blood all fervour, and the brain all guile—
The patriot's bluntness, and the bondsman's wile."
After having thus mentioned that great embodiment
of Irish turbulence, and glanced for a moment on the
errant (not knight-errant) Lord Stanley, whom he
styles the " Rupert of Deby.te," our author sketches
Lord John Russell in these peculiar terms :
" Next cool, and all unconscious of reproach,
Comes the calm Johnny, who upset the coach.'
How formed to lead, if not too prcud to please—
His fame would fire you, but his manners freeze.
Like or dislike he dues not care a jot;
He wants your vote but your affection not;
Yet human hearts rived sun, as well as oats—
So cold a climate plays the deuce with votes.
And while his doctrines ripen day by day,
His frost-nipp'd party pines itself away;—
But see our statesman when the steam is on,
And languid Johnny glows to glorious John!
When Hampd4-re's thought, by Falkland's muses drest,
Lights the p:de cheek, and swhlls the generous breast;
When the pent heat expands the quickening soul—
And foremost in the race the wheels of genius roll!"
Mixed with some shrewdness, a dash of erroneous
sarcasm, and an occasional indication of drollery,
these outlines of our contemporary rulers are not
altogether unworthy of the men themselves, while
the introduction of them tends considerably to render
the other portions of the romance doubly piquant
and zestful. That the " New Timon" is the produc-
tion of no inexperienced pen, that the imagination of
its author is modulated to a classical composure, that
he is no obscure observer of the social or political ad-
vancement of this age, is evidenced in every para-
graph. Whoever he may he, he need not disown his
offspring through fear of its demerits.

CONTARINI FLEMING.—ALROY. Romances
by B. Disraeli, M.P 3 Vol.
_ _ _

Mr. Disraeli has been greatly celebrated during
the last few years for his brilliant and satirical
speeches in the House, and his admirable delineations
of modern society. The new generation look to him
with confidence. He not only thinks deeply, but
speaks boldly : the first to denounce a narrow pre •
judice, the foremoit to support a righteous cause.
Though entirely differing from him in political
opinions, at least in what regards the outward form,
we cordially agree with the principles he advocates,
and regard him as a real reformer. The flimsy dis-
guise of political dishonesty, the empty subterfuge of
the hypocrite, give way before the breath of his
withering sarcasm, while the wronged and the suffer-
Mg find in him a powerful friend. His pen is ever
ready in their cause, and speaks the language of a
feeling heart. Such are the qualities which have
gained him the approbation of the multitude, such the
qualities which have excited the enmity of the few.
It is in a very different character he appears in the
works now before us. These were written many
years back, and are now republished for the benefit
of the new generation. Here we scarcely recognise
the philosopher and politician so much as the poet.
To write the story of Contarini Fleming was a bold
and original undertaking, but it was successful. The
author's object was not to chronicle the adventures of
an ordinary being, to indite a common biography;
his aim was to pourtray the rise and progress of
genius, to develop the formation of a poet. It is not
a record of events and accidents, but a history of
ideas, and thoughts, and passions.
" The noblest study of mankind is man."

The most glo-rious subject of contemplation is the
human mind—and what mind can compare to a
poet's ? Ah, what a combination is presented to our
view ! what burning desire for fame—what high
ambition—what thrilling hope, and gloomy, hesitating
doubts—what bright hours of inspiration—what days
of joy and nights of sorrow ! Now raised to the
loftiest eminence of blissful anticipation—now sunk
to the lowest depth of despair ! The creature of
extremes, feeling joy and sorrow in the uttermost
degree—and love, the most ennobling of all human
passions—how pure and holy is the love of a poet ?
From the gorgeous realms of imagination he brings
a thousand unknown charms " to clothe with excel.,

lence the thing beloved ;" he paints her beauty with
colours borrowed from the heaven of his fancy ;
he bows in ecstacy before his idol's shrine—
his mighty spirit yields a passionate adoration.
To delineate such emotions Contarini Fleming was
undertaken ; it was a daring task, but its intentions
are fulfilled. It is, indeed, written con amore, with
the ease of one who comprehends his subject, with
the truth of one who has himself experienced the
feelings he describes. Fortune placed Contarini in a
situation well calculated to develop genius. Nursed
amid the cold snows of the north, the young poet
yearned for his mother's lovely land, the beautiful
Ansonia, ignorant of a mother's love, so dear to all,
above all to the children of genius, with a heart
glowing with fond affection, he found few to love, and
none to comprehend him. We sympathise with the
lonely sorrows of the friendless child, we follow with
interest his career at school and college, we see him
ever the creature of extremes—now the gayest of the
gay, the leader of mirth and folly, gaining the hearts
of his comrades by his lively, ardent temper—now
studying Greek twelve hours a day, and winning a
golden medal amidst " classic cheers"—learning the
philosophy of Voltaire, and flying from the world to
the depths of a lonely forest to be the leader of a band
of robbers. His strange education thus concluded,
he returns to his home and enters public life. He
consigns his wild poetic effusions to the flames, and
devotes himself to politics with all the ardour of his
nature. His father filling the post of Minister, he
is introduced to the Government under his auspices ;
here he waits awhile, versed in all mysteries of poli-
tical intrigue, regarded as a promising statesman.
But the ruling passion of his life is strong, and again
exerts its influence ; he flies to solitude ; there he
pours forth the feelings of his heart in a bitter satire
of his recent companions—his ministerial colleagues
are not forgotten. " Manstein" is published without
its author's name ; it excites immediate and universal
attention. In describing this portion of his hero's
life, Mr. Disraeli seems to have anticipated the pub-
lication of his own " Co ing sby " some thirteen years
afterwards. The excitement
which that celebrated
novel occasioned finds acounte!part in the history of
around mingledx with the gay
i
" Manstein." When
crowd, he heard all Contarini: Aaanmstaetiinon4
Alilhce the
following :—" Have you read
must get it directly. The oddest book that ever' ywoaus
written. We are all in it, we are all in it! There
is the Baron de Bragnaes—he is really hit off to the
life—very satirical—very odd—very personal—ail
in it—must get it—very witty—very flippant—
everybody is reading it. It is full of imagination,
and very personal, very personal, indeed ; we are all
in it. You are there! ' The name of the author is
soon discovered, and Contarini finds himself sur-
rounded by enemies ; this troubles him little ; he cares
not for the smiles of the world. There is one thing he
cares for, however; it is thus powerfully described :
" About two months after the publication of 'Manstein,'
appeared a new number of the great critical journal of
the north of Europe. One of the works reviewed was
my notorious production. I tore open the leaves with a
blended feeling of desire and fear, which I can yet re-
member. I felt prepared for the worst. I felt that such
grave censors, however impossible it was to deny the
decided genius of the work, and however eager they
might be to hail the advent of an original mind, I felt
that it was but reasonable and just that they should dis-
approve of the temper of the less elevated portions, and
somewhat dispute the moral tendency of the morte
exalted.

" With what horror, with what blank despair, with
what supreme, appalling astonishment, did I find myself,
for the first time in my life, a subject of the most reck-
less, the most malignant, and the most adroit ridicule.
I was scarified, I was scalped. They scarcely con-
deacendcid to notice my dreadful satire, except to remark,
in passing, that, by the by, I appeared to be as ill
tempered as I. was imbecile. But, with all my eloquence,
and all. tuy fancy, mid all the strong expression of my
secret feelings, these ushers of the court of Apollo faith
laughed me off Parnassus, and held me up to pubiic
scorn, as exhibiting the most lamentable instance of
mingled pretension and weakness, and the most ludicrous
specimen of literary delusion that it had ever been their
unhappy office to castigate, and, as they hoped, to cure.
ov:r1:1113'e. fellism
visi n; my kn e,f•rsutinremmbley hda. felt that thfialmt sicknessfioated
of heart that we experience in our first serious scrape.
I was ridiculous. It was time to die.

"What did it signify? What was authorship to me?
What did I care for their flimsy fame—l, who not yet of
age, was an important functionary of the State, and who
,
might look to its highest confidence and honours? It
was really too ludicrous. I trit-d to laugh. I did smith
very bitterly. The insolence of these fellows ! Why!
if I could not write, surely I was not a fool. I had dove
something. Nobody thought me a fool. On the ci n-
trary, everybody thought me a rather extraordinary
person. What would they think now? I felt a qualm.
" I buried my face in my hands ; I summoned my
thoughts to their last struggle, I penetrated into my very
soul; and I felt the conviction that literary creation was
necessary to my existence, and that for it I was formed.
And all the beautiful and dazzling forms, that had
figured in my youthful visions, rose up before me,
crowned monarchs, and radiant heroes, and women
brighter than day; but their looks were mournful, and
they extended their arms with deprecating anguish, as