ulwer-Lytton's reply was a most cordial invitation to stay with
him at Knebworth and talk the matter over. Swinburne gratefully
accepted, and John Forster was asked to meet him. It was Bulwer-Lytton,
it appears, who found another publisher for the outraged volume, and
helped Swinburne out of the scrape. He was always kindness itself if an
appeal was made to his protection, and to his sense of justice. However,
pleasant as the visit to Knebworth was, there is no evidence that it was
repeated. Bulwer-Lytton considered Swinburne's opinions preposterous,
and indeed if he told Swinburne, as in 1869 he told his son Robert, that
Victor Hugo was "but an epileptic dwarf in a state of galvanism," there
must have been wigs on the green at Knebworth.

The student of the biography, if he is already familiar with the more
characteristic works of Bulwer-Lytton, will find himself for the first
time provided with a key to much that has puzzled him in the nature of
that author. The story itself, apart from the tragic matrimonial trouble
which runs through it like a blood-red cord, is of unusual interest. It
is a story of strife, without repose, without enjoyment, but with a good
deal of splendour and satisfaction. Almost to the end Bulwer-Lytton was
engaged in struggle. As an ambitious social being he was fighting the
world; as an author he was battling with his critics; as a statesman he
was always in the wild storm of party politics. As a private individual
he was all the time keeping his head up against the tide of social
scandal which attacked him when he least expected it, and often
threatened to drown him altogether. This turmoil contrasts with the calm
of the evening years, after the peerage had been won, the ambition
satisfied, the literary reputation secured.

Few writers have encountered, in their own time and after their death,
so much adverse criticism, and yet have partly survived it. It is hardly
realised, even perhaps by Lord Lytton, how unwilling the reviewers were
to give credit to his grandfather. He never found favour in their eyes,
and it was a matter of constant resentment with him that they did him,
as he thought, injustice. The evidence of his wounded feelings is
constant in his letters. The Quarterly Review never mentioned him
without contempt until 1865, when the publication of his works, in
forty-three volumes, forced it to consider this indefatigable and
popular writer with a measure of respect. Sir Walter Scot