is on the left; and so on through every stair of the royal seat.' The
theory that so keen a satirist of human follies must have been more or
less ironical in his professed admiration for boundless wealth, though
no doubt tempting, is probably erroneous. The simplest explanation is
most likely to be the truest. Disraeli has a real, unfeigned delight in
simple splendour, in 'ropes of pearls,' in priceless diamonds, gorgeous
clothing, and magnificent furniture. The phenomenon is curious, but not
uncommon. One may sometimes find an epicure who stills retains an
infantile taste for sweetmeats, and is not afraid to avow it. Experience
of the world taught Disraeli the hollowness of some objects of his early
admiration, but it never so dulled his palate as to make pure splendour
insipid to his taste. It is as easy to call this love of glitter vulgar,
as to call his admiration for dukes snobbish; but the passion is too
sincere to deserve any harsh name. Why should not a man have a taste for
the society of dukes, or take a child's pleasure in bright colours for
their own sake? There is nothing intrinsically virtuous in preferring a
dinner of herbs to the best French cookery. So long as the taste is
thoroughly genuine, and is not gratified at the cost of unworthy
concessions, it ought not to be offensive.

Disraeli's pictures may be, or rather they certainly are, too gaudy in
their colouring, but his lavish splendour is evidently prompted by a
frank artistic impulse, and certainly implies no grovelling before the
ordinary British duke. It is this love of splendour, it may be said
parenthetically, combined with his admiration for the non-scientific
type of intellect, which makes the Roman Catholic Church so strangely
fascinating for Disraeli. His most virtuous heroes and heroines are
members of old and enormously rich Catholic families. His poet,
Contarini Fleming, falls prostrate before the splendid shrines of a
Catholic chapel, all his senses intoxicated by solemn music and sweet
incense and perfect pictures. Lothair, wanting a Sidonia, only escaped
by a kind of miracle from the attractions of Rome. The sensibility to
such influences has a singular effect upon Disraeli's modes of
representing passion. He has frankly explained his theory. The
peasant-noble of Wordsworth had learnt to know love 'in huts where poor
men lie,' and a long catena of poetical authorities might be adduced in
support of the principle. That is not Disraeli'