The Wheeling daily intelligencer. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1865-1903, 1867-09-13

In IL late German work, "Welter una
Weiter," we find the following interest
ing gossip on several literary celebrities
of England:
"Bulwer lives in his beautiful villa in
Fulham, II quiet, lonely villa above
London. a tranquility disturbed by
nothing, reigns iu the house. Notwith-
standing the warm spring day, Buiwer
sits near the lire place, where bright
coal fire is burning. Outside, the
branches of y 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, Whlch
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
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 whIskers fall from his long and
narrow chin on his breast. The whole
face looks decidedly too long. He has
a sickly appearance, and is abstracted.
His family affairs are at the bottom OF
his melancholy, which no one can fali
10 perceive. MS lllIlc NAABANSA AACAt
his sou, the heir to the baronetey, 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 ap-
pearance OF her husband. She contem-
plates the portrait of her on;she charges
her husband with being another Love-
lace and refuses TO pay his debts.
Her large eyes look at us lAnSuidiy;
her tulI cheeks contain a number OF
dimples, such as Reubens liked TO paint;
her lips are still as swelling, fresh ana
red, us those OF Titan's daughters, and
vet she is much over forty. On think
ing OF this our suspicious are aroused;
the crimson on her cheeks is too fra
grant; the heavy braids surmounting
her forehead are too black; her man
ners 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
mourniul tones of his novels.
"But let us pass on. We reach anoth-
er quiet village, Chelsea. on the lawn
III one OF the small gardens, sits Scot
lands celebrated author, Thomas Car
lyle. Hehas book on his knees, and
gazes thoughtfully into vacancy. His
Is dry, guunt 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. If
you converse with him, he Is at first
dry and laconic. He conducts you
then 10 the petty sitting room OF his
wife.
Mrs. Carlyle is lively, pleasant
creature, and world ofthought beams
from her dark eye. She mas learned IA
great deal; her father gave her most
profound education, ard she is pos.
sessed of IA keen, yet mild Judgment, OF
which her husband himself is afraid.
But there she sits now, sewing with her
handsome finger IA new craVat tor her
Diogenes. She wears an elegant morn
ing costume. In these surroundings
we begin TO feel nt ease. The portraits
of Goethe, young and old, and Jean
Paul are looking down upon us. Car
lyle becomes talRative and WHY, and
displays his whole famous eloquence.
you like to listen to hun, but you must
beware eofinterrupting him, and, above
all, of coulradicting him. He resem-
bles ii cleRr-sounding bell, you touch
it aud II resounds, hut only TO itself.
Nevertheless, we Germans are always
well at ense in Carlyle's presence, for,
if there Is AN EnglishmHn who esteems
and reveres our poets, 1t Is Carlyle.
"Let us go now TO Charles Dickens.
There are several aristocrAtic carriages
and plain hacks i'll front of his elegant
residence, where numerous party is
assembled. The celebrated rOmancist
has returned from an extended trip 20
Switzerland and Genoa, and gives to-
night IA 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
kindheartedness. He is cOnversing
with two ladies', who cannot refrain
from bursting into loud laughter. You
can tell at once, ON looking at this lace,
which is by no means expressive in
itself, when Dickens describes; recites.
or satiriZes. Dickens is precisely as he
writes-lively, sanguine. BON UiUdHt,
now in n poetical mood, now observing,
all seemingly superticially, and yet
what deep heart is concealed under
this restless surface! II it is said that
the currents of the world are injurious
to genius, Dickens example proves the
contrary; Tor his creations spring from
the observations OF life; he would be
nothing without seeing, observing and
living with what he beholds.
"In former times his wife, n stately
| lady, was to be seen on such occasions.
Her black eyes, her full form, her
measured conduct, were in striking
contrast with those of her husband, and
we regret to say that the quarrel which
disturbed their relations and their hap
piness after IL blissful welded life of
m any years, has not yet been settled.
They are not yet reconclled. The hus-
band browns his cares in his literary
activity and in the noisy hustle of the
world"