The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1867-10-03
Bulwer, CARLYLE. and Dickens.

Bulwer, Carlyle, and Dickens.
In late German work, "Weiter und
Weiter," we find the following interesting
gossip on several literary celebrities of Eng
land:-
Bulwer lives in his beautiful villa in Fnl-
ham, quiet, lonely village above London.
A tranquility disturbed by nothing reigns in
the house. Notwithstanding the warm spring
day, Bulwer sits near the fireplace, where a
bright coal fire is burning. Outside, the
branches OF cherry tree, covered with an
exuberance of blossoms, hang down on the
window, and the low chrping notes of the
birds penetrate into the room.
The celebrated author-a tall, slender form,
wrapped in a sky-blue, soft-lined silken
morning gown, which is fastened with q strong
cord around his wast-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 bis small mouth and
his red whiskers fall from his long and narrow
chin on his breast. The whole face looks de-
cidedly too long. He has a sickly appearance,
and is abstracted. 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 of his baronetcy, is estrang-d
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 g-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 striking contrast with the
appearance OF her husband, She contemplates
the portrait of her son. she charges her hus-
band with being another Lovelace, and refusing
to pay her debts. Her large eyes look at us
Iar,r I l.. ELL
dlmples, such as Rubens liked to paint; her
lips are still swelling, fresh and red as those
of Titian'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 surmouuting her
forehead are too black; her manners are de-
cidedly too kind and polite, and cannot be sin
cere: 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 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 thoughtfully into va
cancy. His is a dry, gaunt form; he wears
Ihorningg gown and cap, and draws heavy
clouds of smoke frem his short clay pipe; he is
the DiOgenes of Chelsea. If you converse with
him he is at first dry and laconic. He con-
ducts you then to the pretty sittingroom of
his wife.
Mrs. Carlyle is lively, pleasant creature,
and world of thought beams from her dark
eyes. She has learned great deal; her father
gave her most profound education and she
is possessed of a keen yet mild Judgment, of
which her husband himself is afraid. But
there she sits now, sewing with her handsome
fingers a 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 upon us.
Carlyle becomes talkative and witty, and dis
plays his whole famous elOquence. 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
resembles clear sounding bell; you touch it
and it resounds, but only to itself. Neverthe-
less, we Germans are always well at ease in
Cariyle's presence, for if there is an Euglish-
man who esteems and reveres our poets, 1T is
Carlyle.
Let us 20 now to Charles Dickens. There
are several arietocratic carriages and plain
hacks in front of his elegant residence, where
a numerous party is assembled. The cele-
brated romancist has returned from an
extended trip to Switzerland and Genoa, and
gives tonight a Sojr6e, 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, neithOr meagre nor round, but brimtul
of good humor and kind -heartedness. DE is
conversing with two ladies who cannot refrain
from bursting into loud laughter. You can
tell at once, on looking at his face which is by
no means expressive in itself, when Dickens
describes, recte+, or satirzes. Dickens is
precisely as he writes-lively, sanguine, bon
oicant, now in a poetcal mood, now observ
ing all seemingly superficial, and yet what q
deep heart is concealed under this restless
surface
fit is said that the currents of the world are
injurious to genius, Dickens example prOve
the oontrary for his creations spring from thu
observations of life he would be nothing
without seeing, observing, and living will
what he beholds
In former times, his wife, a stately lady
was to be seen on such occasions. Her blacl
eyes, her full form, her measured conduct
were in striking contrast with those of he
husband, and we regret to say that tn
quarrel which disturbed their relations an
their happiness, after blissful welded life q
many years, has not yet been settled. The
are not yet reconciled. The husband drown
his cares in his literary activity and in tn
noisy hustle of the world.