conception breathes of their lofty inspiration. It is a poem full of noble pictures; the vision of the young prince amid the tombs is as grand as the mighty and mysterious temples that yet remain to tell of the glories of architecture, when architecture was the first science of the world. It is greatly to be regretted that Mr. D'Israeli has never published his travels in a collected form. We should like to have a journal; his personal adventures as far as possible—told with his own dramatic power. His impressions fresh from the scenes, together with what ever train of thought such impressions might inspire—add to these his descriptions, which give the colours of the painter with the associations of the poet—and these would form one of the most fascinating works ever produced.
Mr. D'Israeli had expressed an intention of remaining some years in Egypt, when the disturbed state of political affairs in England hastened his return. The tumult of reform had reached even to the Pyramids. At that time the House of Commons was the arena to which every young and ambitious man turned his hopes. It may now be more than doubted whether such excitement is not among "remembered things." But, towards the end of 1832, Mr. D'Israeli stood for the borough of High Wycombe, near which town his family reside. His successful opponent was the Hon. Colonel Grey, younger son of the then Premier. He was again defeated in 1834 by his influential opponent, though each time by trifling majorities. We have heard much of Mr. D'Israeli's eloquence from those who were present during his addresses to the electors. It is fervid, flowing, and eager, with a vein of fiery sarcasm which suited to its impetuous yet penetrating character.
Since that period our author has produced his "Revolutionary Epic," a poem full of noble thoughts, a fine specimen of versification, but certainly too allegorical, and too much apart from the present day. Still, how well can we comprehend its composition! The abstract is such a relief to the actual.
Mr. D'Israeli's last work was "Henrietta Temple,"—one of the most agreeable love-stories ever written. There is nothing which people seem to know so little about as love, and yet it influences all. It matters not what may be the character on which it acts—for that character is utterly changed. Few have ventured to paint love with sufficient simplicity, and in hazarding that truth consists the great charm of "Henrietta Temple." The exquisite personification of the ancients is true. Love is a child. In what does its happiness exist?—in its eager belief,—in its sweet and simple faith in the good and the beautiful,—in narrowing the circle of its hopes, and confiding in their fulfilment. What is love but the childhood of the heart? "Heaven lies around us in our infancy," and the intellect and the affections can alone bring that time back again. It is an error—and worse, a grave fault—among the many writers, to associate love with the darker passions. "From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;" and only where it purifies and elevates, is the spiritual and enduring presence of love truly recognised. In the lighter portions of the work we distinguish the "keen artillery" of "Vivian Grey." The "cabless dandy" is a satire in a sentence. If deep observation, passionate eloquence, dramatic power of character, and the picturesque like a rich colour flashing over all; if these give—what they always give—fame, Mr. D'Israeli's place is already taken among the high and imaginative names of our literature.
