The Wheeling daily intelligencer. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1865-1903, 1867-09-26

BuIRer, Carlyle aud Dickens.
In late German work, Weiter and
Weiter, we find the following interest
ing gossip on several literary celebrities
of England:
"Bulwer lives in his beautiful villa
in Fulham, a quiet, lonely villa above
London. a tranquility disturbed by
nothing, reigns in the house. NOtwith-
standing the warm spring day, Bulwer
sits near the IRE place, where bright
coal fire is burning. Outside, the
| branches of cherry tree, covered
with an eXubeTance of blossoms, hang
down on the window, and the low,
| chirping notes of the birds penetrate
into the room. The celebrated author
IA tall, slender form, wrapped in a
sky-blue, soft-lined, Silken morning
gown, which is fastened with strong
cord around the waist-sits at his large,
empty table, and has before him only
blank book, in which he writes his
new novels. His large, light blue eyes
cast longing glauces out of the window I;
his auburn hair flows in ringlets down
on his high, narrow forehead; the
large, slender nose hangs over his
small month, and his red whiskers fall
from his long and narrow chin on his
breast. The whole face looks decidedly
too long. He has u sicklY appearance,
and is ubstrHcted. His family affairs
are at the bottom of his melancholy,
which no one can fail u perceive. His
little daughter died; his son, the heir
to the baronetcy, is estranged from
him; and his wife. Lady Bulwer, has
long since been separated from him,
and lives in the city.
"Let us enter her room. She sits ht
her writing table, for she is likewise at
work upon a novel. Her corpulent
form, her round face. her radiant deep
blue eyes, her raven hair, everything
forms II striking contrast with the ap-
pearance of her husband. She cOntem-
plates the portrait of her son; she
charges her husband with being an
other Lovelace and refusing to pay his
debts. Her large eyes look at us Ian
guidly; her full cheeks contain n num-
ber of dimples, such as Renbens liked
TO paint; her lips are still as swelling,
fresh and red. as those of Tilau's
daughters, and yet she is much over
forty. On thin <ing of this our suspt-
cions are aroused; the crimson on her
checks is too fragrant; the heavy braids
surmOunting her forehead are too
black: her manners are decidedly too
kind and polite, and cannot be sincere
we escape from her, bearing in mind
the bleeding heart of her melancholy
husband, and the mournful tone of his
novels,
"But let us pass on. We reach an-
other quiet village, Chelsea. On the
lawn in one of the small gardens, sits
Scutland's celebrated author, Thomas
Carlyle. Me has book on his knees,
aud gaZes thoughtfully into vacancy.
His is dry, gaunt form; he wears "a
morning gown and cap, and draws
heavy clouds OF smoke from his short
clay pipe; he is the Diogeues of Chelsea.
Ii you converse with him, he ID at first
dry and laconic. He conducts you
then TO the pretty sitIing-room of his
wife.
"Mrs. Carlyle is a lively, pleasant
creature, and a world of thought beams
from her dark eyes. She has learned q
great deal; her father gave her most
profound education, and she Is pos
essPd sof a keen, yet mild Judgment
of which her husband himselfis afraid
But there she sits now, sewing with
her handsome fingers new cravat for
her DioGenes. She wears an elegant
morning costume. In these surround
ings we begin to feel at ease. The por.
traits of Goethe, young and old, and
Jean Paul are looking down upon us
Carlyle becomes talkative and witty,
and displays his whole famous elo-
qUence. But he is decidedly one-sided
You like to listen to him, but you must
beware ofinterrupting him, and, above
all, of contradicting him. He resem'
bles a clear-sounding bell; you toucl
it and IL resounds but only to itself
Nevertheless, we Germans are alway:
well at ease in Carlyle's presence, for
ii there is an Englishman who esteem!
and reveres our poets, it is Carlyle.
"IIet US go now TO Charles Dickens
There are several aristocratic carriages
and plain hacks in front of his elegan
residence, where numerous party IL
assent bled. The celebrated ronancis
| has returned from an extensive trip tt
Switzerland and Genoa, and gives to-
night SOiTee, such as are the order OF tht
| day, at his hospitable house. DE II
blonde, his eyes are lig ht blue, his lace
/ flushed with wine, neither meaSre mol
round, but brimful of good humor anC
| kindheartedness. He Is converslnG
with two ladies who cannot refrain
| from bursting into loud laughter. 4ot
| can tell at once, on looking at THIS lace
which is by no means expressive IL
itself, when Dickens describes, recltes
or saLiriZes. Dickens is precisely as h'
writes-lively, sanguine, n bon UtUdnt
/ now in poetical mood, now observing
and all seemingly SupeThclally, anC
vet what IL deep heart IS concealed un
| der this restless surfaced 1t Is sBid tina
| the currents of the world are injurious
To genius. Dickens's examples prove
| the contrary, for his creations sprinl
| from the observations of life; he woulc
! be nothing without seeing, observing
and living with what he beholds.
"In former times his wife, stately
| lady, was to be seen on such occasions
| Her black eyes, her full form, he
measured conduct, were in striking
| contrast with those of her husband anC
we egret to say that the quarrel which
disturbed their relations and their hap
piness after blissful welded lie o
many years has not yet been settled
| They are not yet reconciled: The hds
| band browns his cares in his literary
activity, and in the noisy bustIe OF tbs