to her intellectual offspring; and the time is not
remote--nay, has already dawned--when, in this regard, the spirit of
Change wields his wand and finds obedience to his prerogatives."

"'No hostility between nations affects the arts:' so said the old
maxim, but it has rarely been found a truism. They who feel it, feel
also the virtue which dictated the aphorism. Men whose object is to
enlighten the nations or exalt the judgment or (the least ambition) to
refine the tastes of others--men who feel that this object is dearer
to them than a petty and vain ambition--feel also that all who labor
in the same cause are united with them in a friendship which exists
in one climate as in another--in a I republic or in a despotism: these
are the best cosmopolites, the truest citizens of the world."

The foregoing extracts will make it obvious that Mr. Bulwer was
at that time sore at the treatment he had received at the hands
of certain of his critics, who were by no means unanimous in their
estimation of his genius. He was very sensitive at all times of
adverse comment upon his writings. Thackeray wounded him woefully when
he made "Chawls Yellowplush" review him characteristically in _Punch_.
These most amusing papers ought to have been included in Thackeray's
published miscellaneous writings, but they were not, although Bulwer
is humorously travestied in _Punch's_ "Prize Novelists," together with
Lover, Ainsworth, and Disraeli. The subjoined will show the style
of the "littery" footman, who, as a critic, "sumtimes gave kissis,
sumtimes kix":

"One may objeck to an immence deal of your writings, witch, betwigst
you and me, contain more sham sentiment, sham morallaty and sham potry
than you'd like to own; but in spite of this, there's the _stuf_
you; you've a kind and loyal heart in your buzm, bar'net--a trifle
deboshed, praps: a keen i, igspecially for what is comick (as for your
tragady, it's mighty flatchulent), and a ready pleasn't pen. The man
who says you're an As, is an As himself. Dont b'lieve him, bar'net:
not that I suppose you will; for, if I've formed a correck opinion of
you from your wuck, you think your small beear as good as most men's.
Every man does--and wy not? We brew, and we love our own tap--amen;
but the pint betwigst us is this steupid, absudd way of crying out
because the public don't like it too. Wy _should_ they, my dear
bar'net? You may vow that they are fools, or that the critix are your
enemies, or