Prescott journal. [volume] (Prescott, Wis.) 1861-1871, 1867-09-28
GENERAL INTELLIGENCE.
Ralwer. carIyIe, and plskens.

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 fire place, where a bright
coal fire is burning. Outside the
branches of Q cherry tree, covered with
an exuberance of blossoms, hang down
ON the window, and the low, chirping
notes of the birds penetrate into the
room. The celebrated author-a tall,
slender form, wrapped IN a sky-blue,
/ soft-lined, siIken morning gown, which
is fastened with a strong cord around
the waist-sits at a large, empty ia
BILE, and has before him only blank
book, In which he writes his new nov
els.
His large, light blue eyes cast long
ing chances oub of the 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 whiskers fall from
his long and narrow chin on his breast.
| The whole face looks decidedly too
long. He has a siekly appearance, and
is distracted. His family affairs are at
the bottom of his melancholy. which
no one can fail to 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 at
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 a striking contrast with the APP
pearance of her husband. She con-
templates the portrait of her son;
she charges her husband with being
another LoveIace and refusing to
pay his debts. Her large eyes look at
us languidly; her full cheeks contain a
number of dimples, such as Rubens
liked to paint; her lips are still as
swelling fresh and red, AS those of I'll
| tan's daughters, and yet she Is much
over forty. On thinking of this our
suspicious are aroused; the crimson on
her cheeks is too fragrant; the heavy
braids surrounding her forehead are
too black; her manners are decidedly
too kind and polite, and cannot be sin-
cere-we escape from her, bearing IN
mind the bleeding heart of her melan-
choly husband, aud the mournful tones
of his novels.
But let us pass on. We reach another
quiet village, Chelsea. On the lawn,
in one of the small gardens, sits Scot
land's celebrated author, Thomas Car
Ivle. He has book on his knees, aud
gazes thoughtfully into vacancy. His
is dry, gaunt form; he wears morn
ING gown and cap, and draws heavy
clouds of smoke from his short clay
pipe: he is the DiOgenes of Chelsea.
III Won converse with him, he is at first
dry and laconic. He conductsyo then
to the pretty sitting room OF has wife.
Mrs. Carlyle is a lively, pleasing
creature. and world of thought beams
from her dark eyes. She has learned
great deal; her father has given her a
most profound education, and she is
possessed of keen, yet mild judg-
mept. of which her husband himself is
afraid. But there she sits now, sewing
with her handsome fingers a new era
vat for her Dlogenes. She wears an
elegant morning costume. In these
surroundings we begin to feel at ease.
The portraits of Goethe, young and
old, and Jean Paul, are looking down
upon us.
CARLYLE becomes laxative and witty,
and displays his whole famous elo-
duence. But he is decidedly one-sided.
You like to listen to him, but you must
beware of interrupting him, and, above
all, of contradicting him. He resem-
bles a clear sounding bell; you touch 1T
and it resounds, but only to itself. New
ertheless, we Germans are always well
at ease IN Oarlyle's presence, for II there
is an Englishman who esteems and re
veres cur poets, it is Carlyle.
Let MS 90 now TO Charles Dickens. -
There are several aristocratic carriages
and plain hacks in front of his elegant
residence. where a numerous party is
assembled. The celebrated romanclst
has returned from an extended trip to
Switzerland and Genoa, and gives TO
night soiree, such as are the order OF
the day, at his hospitable house. lie
ia blonde, his eyes are light blue, has
face flushed with wine, neither meagre
nor round, but brimful of good humor
and kindheartedness. He is convers-
ing with two ladies, who can not refrain
from bursting into loud laughter.
You can tell at once, on looking at
this face, which is by no means express
sive in itself, when Dickens describes,
recites, or satirizes. Dickens rs pre-
cisely as the writes--lively, sangnine,
bon Digdnt now in a pOetical mood,
now observing, all seemingly superb
cially, and yet what deep heart is con.
cealed under this restless surface III
IL is said that the currents of the world
are injurious to genius, Dickens exam
pie proves the contrary, for his crea-
tions spring from the observations OF
life; he would be nothing without see
ing, observing and living with what he
beholds.
In former times his wife, a stately
lady, was to be seen on such occasions.
Her black eyes, her full form, her mea-
sured conduct, were In striking con-
trast with those of her husband, and
we regret to say that the quarrel which
disturbed their relations and their
happiness after blissful welded life
of many years has not yet been settled.
They are not yet recOnciled. The hus-
band browns his cares In his literary
activity and in the noisy hustle of the
world.
The PURCHASE OF A NAVAL STATION
IN THE WEST INDIES. The government
has received information from the
A l. of