The Fairfield herald. [volume] (Winnsboro, S.C.) 1849-1876, 1867-09-25
Bulwer, Carlyle, ano Dickens,

W S'tSi, VIC liiu VIC loliOWinB interest.
ing gossip on several literary celebrities
of England:
Bulwer lives in his beautiful villa in
Eulham, q quiet lonely village above
London. "A tranquility disturbed by
nothing, rcigns in tile house. Not.
wIths,anding tho warm spring day, Bul.
wcr sits near tho Fireplace, where a
bright coal fire is burning. Outside,
the branches of a cherry tree, covered
with an eXnberance of blossoms, hang
down on the window, and the low chirp.
ing notes of Tic birds penetrate into the
room. The celebrated author--a tall,
slrnder lorm, wrapped in sky-blne,
sot lined sllkrn morning gown, Which
is fastened with n strong cord around
l"c waist sits at his large empty table,
aud has before him only a blank book,
IN winch he writes his new novels -.
llIs large, light.blnc eyes cast longing
glanccs out Of tho window; his auburn
hair flows in ringlets down on his high
narrow forehead the large slender nose
hangs over his small mouth, and his red
whlshcrs fall from his long and narrow
chm, On his breast. lie has siclily
appearance, and is abstractcd. His
iamily affairs arc Mt the bottom OF his
melancholy, which no ono can fail 10
| perceive. lis little daughter Iicd his
son, tho her Of his baronetcy, is cstrang.
cd from him and Ills wife, Lady Dul-
wcr, has long since been separated from
him, and lives in .he city.
Let us enter her room. She sits at
her writing table for she is likewise at
work upon novel, ITer corpulcnt
form, her round face, her radiant deep
blue eyes, her raven hair, everything
lorms Il striking contrast with the ap
pearancc ihcr husband. She contcm.
plates tho portrait Of her son; she
charges her husband will, being another
Lovcacc and refusing to pay her debts.
llcr large eyes look at us langnidly ;
her full checks contain number OF
dimplcs, such rs Rubcns liked to paint ;
her lips are still as swelling, fresh and
rcd as those Titian's daughters, and yet
she is much over forty. On thinking Of
this our suspicious arc aroused; the
crimson on her checks is too fragrant
the heavy braids surmoun,ing her lore.
head arc too black her manners arc dc,
cioedly too kind and polite, and cannot
be slnccrc-we escape from her bear.
ing III mind the bleeding heart ol
her melancholy hnsbend, and the mourn.
fu! tone Of his novels.
But let us PASS on. We reach anoth
cr quiet village, Chelsea. On the lawn,
in one Of the small gardens, sits Scot.
lands celebrated author, Thomas Car.
| lyle. lc has book on his knees, and
gazcs thoughtlnlly iuto vacancy. lie
is dry, gannt form he wcars n morn
ing gown and cap and draws heavy
clouds of smoke from his shor! CLAW pipc
he is the Diogcncs of Chelsea. If Won
converse with him, he is at first dry and
aconic. lIo conducts you then tc
the pretty sitting room Of his wife.
Mrs. Carlyleis lively, pleasant crca
turc and world of thought beams from
her dark eyes. She has learned a great
deal her father gave her most pro
lound education, and she is possessed of
a keen, yet mild Judgment, of which hcl
husband himself is afraid. But thcre
she sits now, engaged in sewing will,
her handsome fingers, a new cravat fol
l'logencs. She wears an elegant morn
ing costume. In these SURROUNDINGS we
begin to lecl at ease. The portraits Of
Goethe, young and old, and Jean Paul
are looking down upon us. Carlyle ba.
canes talkatvo and witty, and displays
his whole famous cloqucncc. Bat he
is decidedly ono.s,ded You like to lis
ten to hm, but you must bcwarc Of in
terrupting him, and, above all, of con
tradicting him. 1Ic resembles n clea,
sounding bell you touch it and it re.
sounds, but only to itself Nevertheless
VIC Germans are always well at ease in
Carlvlos presence, for, if there is M
Englishman who cstecms us and rcvercs
our poets, it's Carlyle.
Lctns 60 now to Charles Dickens
There are several arslocratic carriages
and plain hacks in front of his elegant
residence. where n numerous party is
assembled. The celebrated romancist
has returned from an extended trip to
Switzerland and Genoa, and gives TO.
night solrcc, SUCH as arc the order OF
the day at his hospitablo house. lie is
blonde, his eyes are light blue, his face
flushed with wine, neither meaere nor
round, but brimlul cl good humor and
kind-heartedncss. He is convcrsno
with two ladies who cannot refrain from
bursting into loud laughter. You can
tel at once, on looking at his face,
which is by no means expressive in it.
sell, when Dickens describes rectcs or
satrizcs. Dickens is precisely rs he
wr'tes-livcly, sangnine, bon vivunt
now IN poelic;.l mood. now Observing.
all seemingly specifically, and yet what
a deep heart is concealed under this rest.
less surface lit is said that the cur.
rents of the world IS injurious to genius,
Dlckcns example proves tho contrary |;
Tor hls creations spring from tho obser.
vations OF life; ho would be nothing
without seeing, observing, and living
| with what he bcholds
In former times his wife. stately
lady was TO be seen on such occasions
Her black eyes, her full lorm, her meas