Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1867-10-16
.RULWER, CARLYLE, AND DICK
EMS.

| In late German work, ''Weiter and
| " eiter" we find the f flowing interest
ling gossip on several literary ce ebrities
of England:
Bulwer lives In bis beautiful villa in
Fulham, quiet, lovely villa, above Lon.
don. a tranquility disturbed by nothing
reigns in the house. Notwithstanding
the warm spring day, Bulwsr sits near
the fire place, where bright coal FIRE is
burning Outside, the branches of 4
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 !
sky-blue, soft-lined, silken morning gown,
which is fastened with strong cord
around the waist-sits at large empty
table, and has before him only oIank
book, in which he writes new novels.
His large, light blue eyes cast longing
glances out 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
whlskers fall from his long and narrow
chin to bis breast. The whole face looks
decidedly too long He has sickly ap-
pearance and is abstracted. His family
affairs are at the bottom of his melapcho-
ly, which no one can fail to perceive.
His little daughter died-his son, the
heir to the baronetcy, is estranged from
h:m-and his wife, Lady Bulwer, has long
since been separated from him, and lives
in the city.
Lei us enter her room, She sits at her
writing table, for she is likewise at work
upon novel: Her corpulent form, her
round face, her radiant deep blue eyes,
her raven hair, everything forms strik-
ing contrast with the appearance of her
husband. She contemplates the portrait
of her son; she charges her husband with
being another Lovelace and refusing to
pay his debts. Her large eyes look at US
languidly, her full cheeks contain num-
Der of dimples, such as Rubens liked to
paint; hel lips are still as swelling fresh
and red, as those of Titian's daughters,
and yet she is much over forty. On
thinking of this our suspicious are arous-
ed; the crimson on her checks is too fra
grant; 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 melan-
choly husband, and 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 Scotland's
celebrated author, Thomas Carlyle. He
has book on his knees, and gazes thought
fully into vacancy. His is dry, gaunt
form; he wears morning gown and cap,
and draws heavy clouds of smoke from
his short clay pipe; he is the Dlogenes Of
Chelsea. If you converse with him, he
is at first dry and laconie. He conducts
you then to the pretty sitting room of his
wife.
Mrs. Carlyle is lively, pleasing crea-
ture, and a world of thought beams from
her dark eyes. She has learned great
deal; her father has given her most pro-.
found lucation, and she is possessed Of a
keen, yet mild judgement, of which her
husband himself is afraid, But there she
sits now, sewing with her handsome fn-
gers new cravat for her Diogenes, 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 up
on US. ma-t ta.H@-" g~ vEa.s
Carlyle becomes talkatiye and witty
and displays his whole famous eloquence.,
But he is so decidedly one sided. You
like to listen to him, but you must beware
of interrupting him, and, above all, Of
contradieting him. He resembles a clear
sounding bell; you touch it and it resounds,
but only to itself. Nevertheless, we Ger
mans are always we'll at ease in CarlyIe's
presence, for if there is an Englishman
who esteems and respects our poets, it IS
Carlyle.
Let us go now to Charles Dickens.
| There are several artistic carriages and
| plain hacks in front of his elegant resi-
dence, where a numerous party is assem-
bl,d. The celebrated romancst has re-
turned from an extended trip to Switzer-
land and Genoa, and gives tonight a
soiree, such as are the order of the day, at
his hospitable house. He is blonde, his
eyes are light blue, his face flushed with
wine, neither meagre nor round, but
brimful of good humor and kindhearted-
ness. He is conversing with two ladies,
who cannot refrain from bursting into
loud laughter. si5 a
You can tell at once, on looking at this
face, which is by no means expressive in
itself, VIXEN Dickens describes, recites, or
satirizes. Dickens is precisely as he
writes-lively, sanguine, abon Oiva',t-
now in poetical mood, now observing,
all seemingly specifically, and yet what
a deep heart is concealed under this rest
less surface! If it is said that the cur