And, undoubtedly, he did a good deal of work for the press, and very remarkable work too--almost wholly in the kind of novel-writing, from _Vivian Grey_ (1826) to _Endymion_ (1880).

Yet it may be permitted--in the face of some more than respectable opinion on the other side--to doubt whether, except in some curious sports and by-products, he ever produced real novel-work of the highest class.

In the satiric-fantastic tale--in a kind of following of Voltaire--such as _Ixion_, he has hardly a superior, unless it be Anthony Hamilton, who is the superior of Voltaire himself and the master of everybody.

For a pure love-novel of a certain kind, _Henrietta Temple_ (1837) is bad to beat--and in a curious cross between the historical, biographical, and the romantic, _Venetia_ (same year) also stands pretty much alone.

But all the rest, more or less political, more or less "of society," more or less fantastic--_Coningsby_ (1844) as well as _Alroy_ (1833), _Tancred_ (1847) as well as _Vivian Grey, Sybil_ (1845), as well as _The Young Duke_ (1831), "leave to desire" in a strange way.