mysteries of Bohemian life, doing this with the view either of ruining his health, or at least of detaching him from his wife. The authoress exhibits great familiarity with the customs of the least reputable district of London. She tells us that Francis Tredethlyn "found that Bohemia was a kind of Belgravia in clectro-plate." There he was carried "to worship at numerous temples, whose distinguishing features were the flare of gas-lamps, and the popping of champagne corks, branded with the obscurest names in the catalogue of winegrowers, and paid for at the highest rate We known in the London market." 66 either to Australia or America. He takes his revenge on Harcourt Lowther by exposing his conduct in the presence of a host of friends. Then occurs the following scene, which resembles that extracted from Aurora Floyd, and also one which we did not extract from John Marchmont's Legacy. It is remarkable as evincing what Miss Braddon considers to be the way in which gentlemen would act when in a state of passion. Mr. Tredethlyn having finished speaking, "There was a moment's silence, followed by a sudden smashing of glass. A pair of lost his head all in a moment, and abandoned "We are rather celebrated for this sort of thing in my country,' Mr. Tredethlyn muttered between his set teeth, as he loosened Harcourt Lowther's grasp from his throat, and hurled him in a kind of bundle to a corner of the room, where he fell crashing down among the ruins of a dumb-waiter, half-buriunder a chaos of broken bottles and lob ster-shells." Harcourt Lowther is unexpectedly baffled in his project. Having discovered ed that Francis Tredethlyn was in the habit of visiting a lady at Petersham, he contrives that Mrs. Lowther shall witness an interview between the two. When next she meets her husband, she tells him that they are to remain strangers to each other, and that his presence inspires her "with disgust and abhorrence." The lady in question turns out to be Mr. Tredethlyn's cousin, whom he had long been in quest of, and who had been married to, and then deserted by, Mr. Lowther's elder brother. This, of course, is not explained at the proper time to Mrs. Tredethlyn. In place of giving a clear statement of the affair, her husband determines first to upbraid his pretended friend, and then to fly from his home. It is a peculiarity of Miss Braddon's heroes and heroines that they are always ready to abandon wife, children, and home, and proceed at a moment's notice This feat accomplished, Mr. Tredethlyn sets off with the intention of starting for South America. No sooner has he departed than his wife longs for his return. Tidings arrive that the vessel in which he is supposed to have sailed has been destroyed by fire, and that all on board have perished. His widow is inconsolable for her loss. When in this state, Mr. Lowther has an interview, and proposes for her hand; which, we suppose, is the right thing for a "delicately-built Sybarite" to do under the circumstances. His overture is scornfully repulsed. He is ordered to leave the house. Before obeying, he stands for a few moments looking at Mrs. Tredethlyn: "A strange compound of passionate admiration and vengeful fury flamed in his eyes." After taking his departure, he wanders "to some dismal waste-ground in the neigh borhood of Battersea. There he as to hinder the startled reader from tossing her volume away in sheer disgust. She can tell a story so as to make us curious about the end. Does the power of doing this alone stamp her as a great novelist? laid himself down among the rubbish of a deserted brickfield, and cried like a child. For Harcourt Lowther a heavier punishment is in store than that of being hurled among broken bottles and lobster shells, or ignominiously turned out of the house of which he was scheming to become master. While endeavoring to make a drunkard of Francis Tredethlyn, he acquired the habit of drinking to excess. At last, he dies of delirium tremens at a German watering place. As may be easily divined, Francis Tredethlyn did not sail in the ship which was lost. He had taken his passage, but did not get on board in time. Everything is explained between him and his wife; and they are re-united, to live, as is the manner of such persons at the end of a novel, an unclouded life. In due time after the reconciliation, children are born to them. It is very noteworthy that, in all Miss Braddon's novels, a child never appears till it is wanted. Need we add that poor curates and their wives never figure among her heroes and heroines! Having now passed in review the long roll of Miss Braddon's personages, what report can we make, what judgment must we pronounce? Have we discovered among them one who thoroughly amuses or interests us; one whom we might be tempted to take as a model, or compelled to admire as the impersonation of anything noble in demeanor and loveable in mind? Is there a single page in her writings from which we have derived any gratification or learned anything new? Have we found her to be a creator of new types, a copyist of living personages, or a creator of unnatural monstrosities? Applying to her productions the test which we named at the outset, we find that she excels where to excel is no merit, failing utterly in those respects wherein to fail means mediocrity. Of pathos and humor, happy touches and telling sayings, words which depict while they explain, thoughts at once original and impressive, we can discover no traces in her pages. What is conspicuous above all things is the skill with which she groups her materials, and the manner in which she deals with revolting topics, so Sydney Smith would have replied, Assuredly it does. When reviewing Mr. Lister's undeservedly forgotten novel, Granby, he wrote these words:-"The main question as to a novel is, Did it amuse? Were you surprised at dinner coming so soon? did you mistake eleven for ten and twelve for eleven? Were you too late to dress? and did you sit up beyond the usual hour? If a novel produces these effects it is good; if it does not, story, language, love, scandal itself, can not save it. It is only meant to please; and it must do that or it does nothing." Now, the reviewers who have lauded Miss Braddon's novels, apply to them only the test employed by Sydney Smith. They tell us that the plots will hardly bear criticism, that the tone is unhealthy, that the views of life are false and mischievous; but they recommend them to us notwithstanding, merely on the ground that each can be read from the first to the last page without our attention ever flagging, or our interest being abated. They are recommended, moreover, as good stimulants in these days of toil and worry, and as well fitted for relieving overtaxed brains by diverting our thoughts from the absorbing occupations of daily life. Others, again, take different ground. According to them the "sensation tale" is no novelty. They boldly avow that all great novels are as sensational as those of Miss Braddon. If called upon they would cite as examples some of the best works of Scott, and a few of the works of Bulwer Lytton and George Eliot. The Heart of Midlothian and Eugene Aram, Adam Bede and The Mill on the Floss, are unquestionably novels wherein there are incidents as highly colored as in Lady Audley's Secret or Henry Dunbar. The difference, however, is far greater than the resemblance. These works are truthful taken as wholes, and even the startling occurrences are not at variance with experience and probability. According to Miss Braddon, crime is not an acci dent, but it is the business of life. She would lead us to conclude that the chief end of man is to commit a murder, and his highest merit to escape punishment; that women are born to attempt to commit murders, and to succeed in committing bigamy. If she teaches us anything new, it is that we should sympathize with murderers and reverence detectives. Her principles appear to us to resemble very strikingly those by which the Thugs used to regulate their lives. The charge is a hard one; but of its justice we are firmly convinced. The extracts we have given suffice to prove that it is deserved. Let her personages cease to be potential or actual criminals, and they will stand forth as lay figures distinguishable for nothing except the shape of their noses and the color of their eyes and hair. They excite our interest only so long as they are blameworthy. Her good people are insufferably stupid. Sir Michael Audley, John Mellish, George Gilbert, Francis Tredethlyn suffer for the sins of others, and seem to suffer deservedly. We can hardly sympathize with fools when their own folly is the cause of their misfortunes. Miss Braddon renders all those who are not wicked so utterly ridiculous, that we are tempted to infer she designed to show how mistaken a thing is probity or goodness. Tested, then, by a purely literary standard, these works must be designated as the least valuable among works of fiction. They glitter on the surface, but the substance is base metal. Hence it is that the impartial critic is compelled, as it were, to unite with the moralist in regarding them as mischievous in their tendency, and as one of the abominations of the age. Into uncontaminated minds they will instil false view of human conduct. Such notions are more easily imposed on the unwary than eradicated from the minds which have cherished them. Miss Braddon makes one of her personages tell another that life is a very different thing in reality than in threevolume novels. She has manifested this in her own works. But the fact of this difference is a conclusive proof of their inferiority. A novel is a picture of life, and as such ought to be faithful. The fault of these novels is that they contain pictures of daily life, wherein there are scenes so grossly untrue to nature, that we can hardly pardon the authoress if she drew them in ignorance, and can not condemn her too strongly if, knowing their falseness, she introduced them for the sake of effect. The Archbishop of York did not overstate the case when, speaking as a moralist, he said at the Huddersfield Church Institute, in November last, that "sensational stories were tales which aimed at this effect simply of exciting in the mind some deep feeling of overwrought interest by the means of some terrible passion or crime. They want to persuade people that in almost every one of the well-ordered houses of their neighbors there was a skeleton shut up in some cupboard; that their comfortable and easy-looking neighbor had in his breast a secret story which he was always going about trying to conceal; that there was something about a real will registered in Doctor's Commons, and a false will that at some proper moment should tumble out of some broken bureau, and bring about the dénoûment which the author wished to achieve." Though the foregoing remarks have a general application, yet they apply with crushing force to the present case. It need only be added, as advice to those who either possess or delight to buy such books, that the proper shelf on which to place them is that whereon stands The Newgate Calendar. We should act unfairly if we left on our readers' minds the impression that we do not regard Miss Braddon as an authoress of originality and merit. In her own branch of literature, we hold that she is without a living rival. The notoriety she has acquired is her due reward for having woven tales which are as fascinating to ill-regulated minds as police reports and divorce cases. Her achievements may not command our respect; but they are very notable, and almost unexampled. Others before her have written stories of blood and lust, of atrocious crimes and hardened criminals, and these have excited the interest of a very wide circle of readers. But the class that welcomed them was the lowest in the social scale, as well as in mental capacity. To Miss Braddon belongs the credit of having penned similar stories in easy and correct English, and published them in three volumes in place of issuing them in penny numbers. She may boast, without fear of contradiction, of having temporarily succeeded in making the literature of the Kitchen the favorite reading of the Drawing room. LIEUTENANT-GENERAL TODLEBEN. THE brilliant career of this remarkable man exemplifies the truth of the old historic maxim "that circumstances make men." It is rather true that talents and genius are thus developed by great occasions. The name of Todleben was unknown abroad previous to the campaign against the Turks on the Danube in 18534. The Crimean war developed his great talents as a military engineer. He became the hero of Sebastopol. In that tremendous war-duel between the Allied armies on one side and Prussia on the other, Todleben was the champion of Russia. His military talents and genius were an over-match for the combined forces and skill of England and France. He saved the Russian army, and was exalted to the high position of Aide-decamp General to the Emperor of all the Russias. The world justly admires talents and genius. This admiration rises to a higher point, when great genius is successfully employed in the conflict of vast armies between contending nations. It is this feeling in the public mind which has called forth such bursts of just admiration at the military genius of General Grant, and the constellation of heroes who have fought the battles of their country under him. It is this in part which gives interest to the fine Portrait of General Todleben which we have placed at the head of this number of the Eclectic. An additional interest is imparted to his portrait by the fact that the Russian Government have employed his talents as a historian to give to the world a permanent record of that tremendous struggle between Russia and the allied armies. That history has been written, challenging the historians of England and France in regard to the accuracy of the facts. A brief and imperfect outlinesketch of the great Russian engineer is all we propose to offer the reader in this place. Francis Edward Todleben, whose name It is a In was to be made illustrious by the siege of Sebastopol, was born at Mittan, the capital of Courland, May 25th, 1818. It was the home of the old dukes of Courland and the residence of King Louis XVIII. of France, while traveling under the title of the Count de Lisle. short distance from the spot where Napoleon crossed the Nieman with his grand army on his way to Moscow. The father of young Todleben was a merchant. After having completed his studies in the schools of Riga, he was admitted into the college of engineers at St. Petersburg. He was afterwards commissioned as a lieutenant in the grenadier corps of sappers. For a number of years he was employed by the bureau of engineering in theoretical studies connected with the attack and defense of fortified places, and between 1848 and 1851, he served in the Caucasus against Shamyl. In the latter year he was appointed aide-decamp to General Von Schilder as lieutenant-colonel of the engineers of the guard. He participated in the campaign against the Turks on the Danube in 1853. 1854 Prince Gortschakoff despatched him as the best engineer officer under his command to assist in the defence of Sebastopol. In less than a year he passed successively through the grades of captain, commandant, lieutenant-colonel, adjutant colonel, marshal de camp, and adjutantgeneral, and received from the Emperor the highest marks of esteem and consideration. He was not entrusted with any important operations until the landing of the Allies in the latter part of September, 1854; but from that time until the capture of the southern part of the city in September, 1855, he exhibited engineering genius of the first order in the construction of earthworks which baffled every effort of the besiegers. He was severely wounded in the course of the siege; and in the latter part of 1855 he was recalled to St. Petersburg, with the rank of Aide-de-camp General, for the purpose of strengthening the defensive works at Cronstadt, where he was still spending much of his time when we were there last summer (1864). For a very able and favorable review of General Todleben's History of the Crimean War, see the ECLECTIC for January of the current year. FALLING LEAVES. ROUND through the charmed circle of the year have we come once more to the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness"-the season of falling leaves. Now upon the mountains is painted the rich coloring of autumn; miles of heather dying into a deeper purple, miles of bracken burnt into vivid rusted masses. Now on the horizon is the vague violet haze into which the sun sinks shorn of his beams, and hangs as a glowing ball fresh from day's furnace. No longer are the groves "Fold upon fold of foliage, Proof against the stars ;" but rather we admire how "The wonder of the falling tongues of flame Illumines the pages of earth's Doomsday Book;" and we perceive how the beneficent Creator hath made everything beautiful in its timeeven the beginnings of decay. I suppose that there is no emblem of human life so hackneyed as the fading and falling leaf, since the prophet wrote those words of terrible truth: "We do all fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away." Read this verse again, before the example of yon whirling, withered leaf. Was ever anything more helpless against the blast that drives it along? So are we helpless against sin and death until God's help comes. A foreign poet has thus expanded the idea: "Like the dry leaf that autumn's breath Sweeps from the tree, the mourning tree; I told thee so-I told thee so- But notwithstanding the lessons of every returning autumn, no truth is slower learned by human nature than the evanescence of the summer of its prime. The subject is unpleasant, though, during the June of life, that distant decay may have a certain attraction of romance; and amid the blaze of busy existence, the long well-filled days, we may even project a wish towards the quiet leaf-falling period, after flowers have blossomed and fruits been borne. Only the true Christian can contemplate with more than composure the surely coming winter of age and infirmity, and the dark days of decay and death that must precede the rising of his new year with God: "These fading leaves, That, with their rich variety of hues Make yonder forest in the slanting sun So beautiful-in you awake the thought Of winter, cold drear winter, when those trees Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch Its bare brown boughs. To me their many-colored beauties speak To you the beauties of th' autumnal year Come from the garden to the fields, and we find "The fox-glove tail Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, "The sere and yellow leaves, with eddying sweep, Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillock'd graves: Now clothe the half-leaved thornthe ruddy haws, Beneath its jetty load the bramble bends." While near at hand hang the milk-white clusters of the hazel, With auburn branches, dipping in the stream, That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow The leaf-strewn banks." Ah! does not all the sadness of the season make one long for the new heavens and the new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness? even though it must be preceded by that awful time, when, in the sublime imagery of the Hebrew prophet, "All the host of heaven shall be dissolved, And the heavens shall be rolled together as a scroll; And all their host shall fall down As the leaf falleth off from the vine, and as a falling fig from the fig-tree." Surely as these short years of ours wax from spring and wane into winter, is coming a wonderful new world, whereof God has told us somewhat in such words as these : "And by the river upon the bank thereof, on this side and on that side, shall grow all trees for meat, whose leaf shall not fade, neither shall the fruit thereof be consumed: it shall bring forth new fruit according to his months, because their waters they issued out of the sanctuary; and the fruit thereof shall be for meat, and the leaves thereof for medicine." Whatever be our interpretation of Ezekiel's inspired vision, it is certain that it points to a period and a place where decay and death shall be unknown, for they shall then be swallowed up in life, as in "a river that can not be passed over." |