s view. 'Love,' he says,
'that can illumine the dark hovel and the dismal garret, that sheds a
ray of enchanting light over the close and busy city, seems to mount
with a lighter and more glittering pinion in an atmosphere as bright as
its own plumes. Fortunate the youth, the romance of whose existence is
placed in a scene befitting its fair and marvellous career; fortunate
the passion that is breathed in palaces, amid the ennobling creations
of surrounding art, and quits the object of its fond solicitude amidst
perfumed gardens and in the shade of green and silent woods'--woods,
that is, which ornament the stately parks of the aforesaid palaces. All
Disraeli's passionate lovers--and they are very passionate--are provided
with fitting scenery. The exquisite Sybil is allowed, by way of
exception, to present herself for a moment in the graceful character of
a sister of charity relieving a poor family in their garret; but we can
detect at once the stamp of noble blood in every gesture, and a coronet
is ready to descend upon her celestial brow. Everywhere else we make
love in gilded palaces, to born princesses in gorgeous apparel; terraced
gardens, with springing fountains and antique statues, are in the
background; or at least an ancestral castle, with long galleries filled
with the armour borne by our ancestors to the Holy Land, rises in cheery
state, waiting to be restored on a scale of unprecedented magnificence
by the dower of our affianced brides. And, of course, the passion is
suitable to such accessories. 'There is no love but at first sight,'[5]
says Disraeli; and, indeed, love at first sight is alone natural to such
beings, on whom beauty and talent have been poured out as lavishly as
wealth, and who need never condescend to thoughts of their natural
needs. It is the love of Romeo and Juliet amidst the gardens of Verona;
or rather the love of Aladdin of the wondrous lamp for some incomparable
beauty, deserving to be enshrined in a palace erected by the hands of
genii. The passion of the lover must be vivid and splendid enough to
stand out worthily against so gorgeous a background; and it must flash
and glitter, and dazzle our commonplace intellects.

In the 'Arabian Nights' the lover repeats a passage of poetry and then
faints from emotion, and Disraeli's lovers are apt to be as
demonstrative and ungovernable in their behaviour. Their happy audacity
makes us forget some little defects in their conduct. Take, for ex