Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer is a young radical who leads a life altogether aristocratic. He is renowned for the elegance of his grooms and of his vehicles. Nobody wears a black frock so short and so tight. He speaks well and easily, with a voice somewhat unpleasant, his head elevated and thrown back after the fashion of men of small stature. He is the elder brother of the novelist, and is himself the author of a work on France, in which he judges of French manners, society, politics and literature with a degree of insane ignorance hardly less disgusting than the _naïve_ buffoonery of Lady Morgan. It is a distinguishing characteristic of the English, to write without knowledge, observation or study on every country they pass through. It is a pity that a man of common sense and intelligence such as Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer, should have made his literary _debut_ by so vulgar a piece of national _gaucherie_. There is nothing about the person of Mr. Hume that would strike you; he looks like a good-natured, unaffected, broad-shouldered countryman, independent in his character, and utterly careless of fashion. His mere manner, to say nothing of his words, expresses invincible aversion to all ceremony. His appearance does not belie his character. His enunciation has all the ease, firmness, and roughness of his opinions. One of the chief priests of radicalism—an inexorable and incorruptible reformer, he has sworn never to sit, but on the benches of the opposition; it is from fidelity to his oath, not from sympathy, as you might well conclude, that he now sits in the ranks of the conservatives.