Curiosities of Literature, Vol. 2 — Story, Setting & Ideas

Anecdote as Argument

Disraeli rarely argues abstractly; he lets stories carry his points. In 'Acajou and Zirphile,' he recounts how an editor of a fairy-tale collection removed a caustic dedicatory epistle because it lacked 'respect' for the public. Disraeli does not merely report—he stages the editor's absurdity: 'we view him in the ridiculous attitude of making his profound bow, and expressing all this “high consideration” for this same “Public,” while, with his opera-hat in his hand, he is sweeping away the most poignant and delectable page.' The anecdote becomes a critique of prudish editorial taste. Similarly, 'Tom o' Bedlams' traces the history of mendicant lunatics to argue that Bethlehem Hospital's stingy regulations created a class of vagrants who then inspired a 'wild fantastic poetry.' Disraeli's method is associative: a detail about clothing provisions leads to Shakespeare, then to a national poetic tradition. The reader must follow these leaps, trusting that the curiosity will cohere.

The Editor's Shadow

This edition was prepared by Isaac Disraeli's son, Benjamin Disraeli, later Earl of Beaconsfield and Prime Minister. The younger Disraeli added a memoir and notes, but his editorial presence is felt most in the selection and arrangement. The volume includes sections on 'Secret History of Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford' and 'Johnson's Hints for the Life of Pope,' suggesting a preference for behind-the-scenes literary politics. Benjamin's own political career may have drawn him to pieces on 'False Political Reports' and 'The Minister—Duke of Buckingham.' Yet the father's voice dominates: Isaac's sentences are long, parenthetical, and fond of ironic asides. The son's notes, where they appear, tend to clarify or correct, but rarely challenge. The result is a layered text—a father's curiosity curated by a son who would become a master of political narrative.

Pace and Digression

The volume's pace is uneven, shifting between brisk anecdote and leisurely catalog. 'Modes of Salutation' lists customs across nations in a few paragraphs, while 'The History of the Caracci' lingers on a family of painters. Disraeli often interrupts himself: a section on 'Literary Composition' veers into a defense of imitation, then into a note on Dante. These digressions are not flaws but features—they mimic the associative mind of a collector. The longest sections, like 'Charles the First's Love of the Fine Arts,' accumulate details without hurry, as if the author expects the reader to browse. Shorter pieces, such as 'On the Custom of Kissing Hands,' deliver a pointed observation and exit. Readers should expect to pause, skip, or reread; the volume rewards those who treat it as a cabinet of curiosities rather than a linear argument.

Disraeli's second volume resists summary, but its method is consistent: trust the anecdote, follow the digression, and expect the unexpected. Readers will find no overarching thesis, but rather a series of windows into literary history—each pane slightly distorted by the author's personality. Approach it as a conversation with a learned, opinionated companion who values the odd detail over the grand narrative. The index and table of contents are essential tools; use them to navigate, but allow yourself to be waylaid.

That sodden afternoon, Disraeli’s wandering footnotes about Charles I and mad beggars kept me company, his voice unhurried as the rain. Somewhere between his anecdotes and my drifting attention, I remembered a classroom copy of Short stories and selections, its dog-eared pages holding similar, quieter mysteries. His history felt suddenly like those stories—just another way of sitting with strangers’ lives. Short stories and selections for use in the secondary schools — Key Ideas to Explore eventually found its way back to my hands, almost without my noticing.