London’s motley vastness, too, and magnetism of attraction were constantly his themes. “... It is a wonderful place, ... this London; a nation, not a city; with a population greater than some kingdoms, and districts as different as if they were under different governments, and spoke different languages.” And yet (of “Lothair”), “I have been living here six months, and my life has been passed in a park, two or three squares, and half a dozen streets!” In _Vivian Grey_ Disraeli whimsically observed that literature was declining in the ’twenties through a wealth grown so luxurious as to rank it with “ottomans, bonbons, and pier-glasses.” “Consols at a hundred were the origin of all book societies. There is nothing like a fall in consols to bring the blood of our good people of England into good order.” Consols have now fallen, and maybe literature is reviving. Certain I am that, when its revival becomes pronounced, it will be through the invigoration of romance. The strange need not be sought in the remote. Wordsworth found it in “laughing daffodils,” as truly as Byron in the Corsair. Unromantic matter, romantically treated, is more refreshing than romantic matter unquickened by personal feeling--by “_Quod latet arcanâ non enarrabile fibrâ_.” I have mentioned Disraeli’s early tendency towards “Ha!” and “Pah!” For this there were several reasons besides his own temper and that of the time. When we speak of an “artificial” style we mean one unnatural to the author. Disraeli’s style was perfectly natural to him, and it altered little. To impose another man’s voice on our own is real artifice. How natively pathetic he could be, is shown by the scene in _Vivian Grey_, where the broken Cleveland sits and sobs amid the laughing children on his lonely bench in Kensington Gardens; and how simply pleasing, by the encounter after long years between “Coningsby” and “Lady Theresa.” He constantly alternates between the homely and the outlandish.