ART. VII.-The Siamese Twins; a Satirical Tale of the Times, with other Poems. By the author of Pelham, the Disowned, &c. 1 vol. 12mo. New-York. 1831.

"THE Siamese Twins," is, upon the whole, a wretched failure. We were at a loss to conceive, when we first took up the book, what use could be made of a lusus naturæ so very disagreeable in a satirical poem. Had it not been that the author, by the title of his work, warranted us in looking for something particularly facetious, we should have expected to find such a subject treated in rather a different style, and with far more power, by the author of "The Disowned." And accordingly, the only parts of this long poem, in four books and twelve chapters, that deserve the least praise, are those of a serious and even gloomy complexion. As for the Satire, as such, we venture to affirm that a more "tragical piece of mirth" has not been indited since Nick Bottom and his company first appeared in Pyramus and Thisbe. We can scarcely help gaping even now, when we think of the dreary and dismal waste through which, from a sheer sense of duty, and with great effort, we have made a most tedious journey. It is inconceivable, how so clever a writer as the author of " Pelham," should so completely have mistaken his walk, or have failed so utterly to accomplish what he had in view. He has published two hundred pages of satire without point, buffoonery without gaiety, and doggerel without drollery or quaintness-the stupidest, without exception, and most vulgar variety, of what is so expressively called in French, platitude. Weary, flat, unprofitable-these three words are the summing up of what we have to say of this "Satirical Tale of the Times"-considered as a satire.

Mr. Bulwer's preface, which contains some good remarks, explains the drift of his work. We shall, therefore, extract it. We take leave to observe, however, upon what he says of those who have been condemned for being "like Lord Byron," in poetry, that no one can be more completely safe on that score than Mr. E. L. B.

"Every one knows the story of a certain Divine, who, on beginning the church service, found himself without a congregation; turning to his clerk Roger, addressed him with " Dearly beloved Roger," &c. An author, now-a-days, in prefacing a volume of Poetry, finds himself a little in the situation of the Divine: and the individual who composes his audience-the solitary Roger whom he can address-is his Publisher!

"Nevertheless, my dear Publishers, I do not think it is quite true (however warmly disappointed Poets, and your yet more disappointed brethren may assert the fact, that no poetry, whatsoever may be its nature, will attract the popular taste of the present age: still less, indeed, do I incline to the opinion of those indelicate and unfeeling critics who assert, with no excusable incivility, that any poetry, if it be very good, will find an equally hearty welcome, whatever be the time of its appearance. Glancing first towards the latter opinion, I think we shall observe that after the death of any pre-eminently popular poet, there is always a sudden, yet a long-continued coolness to the art, which his admirers seem to imagine has expired with himself. Not only the new aspirant, but the poet of established celebrity, is mortified by indifference; and discovers that the broader fame which perhaps he thought overshadowed, on the contrary, protected his renown. Since the death of Lord Byron, the poetry of Moore, the friend of the deceased, or of Southey the antagonist, has thus seemed to be less eagerly sought for than during the lifetime of that extraordinary man, when his genius or his faults were the theme of every literary conversation, and the claims of his contemporaries were brought forward to illustrate, to lessen, or to contrast the merits of the popular idol. I apprehend that the same circumstances will apply to every more exciting species of literature; and had the world lost the author of Waverley' at the time when the fullest splendour of his celebrity was calling forth a race of no unnoticed emulators, the whole tribe of historical, or even of Scottish novelists would suddenly have sunk into that class of writers, to whose cians the public would have lent the least courteous attention. A great literary man maintains in esteem the whole respectable part of his fraternity, and when he dies they share the same fate as the friends of a savage chief, whom his countrymen immolate upon his tomb.

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If, my dear Publishers, we shall find, on an attentive recurrence to literary history, that this observation is not without truth in general, there was that in the particular instance of Lord Byron which would heighten, perhaps beyond a precedent, the indifference towards the art which had lost so eminent a master. For it is superfluous to say, that no poet ever created so feverish and so unhealthy an interest in the popular mind; and that the subsequent langour and relaxation would necessarily be proportioned to the excitement they succeeded. The poetry itself, too, of Lord Byron is of a heated and exaggerated character; and his genius so long taught the public to consider stimulants as a legitimate diet, that while, ou the one hand, no succeeding poet could surpass the excitation which he maintained; so, on the other hand, any simpler-I was about to say any more natural-school of poetry might reasonably be expected to appear common-place and insipid.

"Again, too, while the public, fascinated by the brilliancy of a bold and uncommon genius, grow wedded to his style-even to his faultsthey resent with peculiar contempt any resemblance to the object of an admiration which they affect to preserve as an exclusive worship. And VOL. VII.-NO. 13.

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yet how few can escape from a seeming imitation, which in reality is nothing more than the tone of the age in which they live; and though more emphatically noted in the most popular poet, than in his less fortunate contemporaries, he also was influenced by, instead of creating. Thus it may be no paradox to say, that a new poet has of late incurred condemnation on two grounds, both of which he must have enjoyed a peculiar felicity to escape-one for being unlike Lord Byron, the other for being like him. Perhaps, without carrying the inquiry farther, we have already been enabled to see that there has been reason to believe the times of late somewhat singularly unfavourable to poetry; and that you, my dear Publishers, have been fully justified, by theory as well as experience, for the very cold water you have thrown upon all proffered speculations in a branch of business so unprofitable. Yet, on the other hand, is it wholly true that no poetry, whatever be its nature, will succeed? And, on the contrary, may we not hope that the disadvantages we have glanced at, and with which poetry has had to encounter, may have an apter reference to the period we have lately passed, than exactly to the present? It is perfectly clear, that at some time or another, the indifference towards poetry occasioned by the death or the absorbing genius of one great poet must subside into that customary and natural coldness with which the public will always regard excursions into the higher and more arduous paths of literature. Why should this time be yet an object of distant anticipation? Has not a sufficient, period elapsed since the passing away of a great man, to allow the feelings he bequeathed to fade also from that undue influence which they might at first have exercised over the popular mind? Has not a new generation arisen? Has not a new impetus been given to the age? Do not new feelings require to be expressed? and are there not new readers to be propitiated, who, sharing but in a feeble degree the former enthusiasm, will turn, nor with languid attention, to the claims of fresh aspirants? Is there not truth in this? and if so, is not the time approaching, if it be not already arrived, when a poet may expect no obstacle and no contention beyond those eternally doomed to his condition? But then what have we said- that a new race have arisen and new feelings are to be expressed.' A poet, therefore, who aspires to reputation, must be adapted to the coming age, not rooted to that which is already gliding away.

"The critics err when they say that any poetry that is very good will succeed; poetry, excellent-nay, surprising-is called forth every hour-yet dies instantly into silence. But then it is poetry which echoes a sound of which we are tired:-to succeed with a new age, it should be of a new character. Hence it is, my dear publishers, that duodecimos in stanzas, and octavos in heroics, slumber on your shelves—a warning to you, an omen to us. Hence it is, that so much genius seems utterly thrown away; that so many excellent verses are written which no one reads; and so many pretty feelings are expressed, with which no one can sympathize. We all grant the talent and the power; but they are wasted in delineating worn-out sentiments and imbodying reflections upon which, in the rapid career of the world, we have already decided. All that morbidity of feeling-all that gloomy repining at

the ends of life-all that affectation to be above the aims and detached from the interests of our fellow-creatures; all such unwholesome sentimentalities and tumid weaknesses, characteristic of a departing age, do not distinguish the rising. Many among the elder part of the literary world may indeed still consider them the components of a deep philosophy, or the signs of a superior mind. But the young have, I am persuaded, formed a nobler estimate of life, and a habit of reasoning, at once founded upon a homelier sense, and yet aspiring to more elevated conclusions.

"What feelings may have succeeded the artificial sentiments that have withered, and which poets daily rise to address, and sink into oblivion for addressing in vain-or what reception the world may give to the poet who is the first to enter deeply into those feelings, and express them first-remains for men more gifted and more zealous than myself to discover.

"The poem which forms the staple of this volume addresses itself to the humours rather than to the passions of men. Chiefly of a comic and of a lightly satiric nature, it makes little pretence to those provinces to which the ambition of poets is usually directed. And, for my own part, even if I possessed far higher endowments for poetry-far warmer inclinations towards it than I ever, in my youngest days of inexperience, imagined I possessed-I own my belief that I have lived too immediately in that day with the style of which the world has grown weary, not to be imbued in the graver school of poetry with the very faults which I should censure in others: and imbued too deeply, and from too early a period, to allow much hope of exchanging those faults for faults of a more innovating and unhackneyed character. In the comic school it is different; for the comic school has been little cultivated in this country; and originality in that department is therefore easier than in one more severe, and yet seemingly more inviting to disciples. If I have now accomplished something which, though a tale and a satire, is yet not evidently plagiarized either from Byron or from Butler-if without that wearisome straining for novelty in detail, which so rarely leads to any thing better than affectation-the matter and the manner be not, on the whole, without some claim to originality-then shall I be fully satisfied. That you, my dear Publishers, may be fully satisfied also is a matter equally desirable, but a little more difficult to effect!

"The above observations were written some months ago; since then the aspect of the times has grown more visibly dark and troubled; and the public, occupied with events of stirring moment, have now some solid reason to be less than ever disposed towards the recreations of the pleasant loiterer, Poesy.' Were this poem of more value, and of a different nature, I should delay its appearance to a less unpropitious moment. I feel, indeed, a little ashamed to produce, at such times, any thing not more intimately connected with the great causes which now (in the exaggeration of no metaphor,) agitate the world. But the crop has been sown, and has ripened, and may stand no longer in other words, so much of any little attraction my poem may possess depends upon

the aptness of its allusions to the present day, that in the present day it must seek its fortune. If it have other merit, indeed, the temporary neglect for which I am prepared cannot become a permanent oblivion. Without referring to posterity-that last and most perilous appeal of the neglected--a court to which, at this moment, I have not the temerity or the vanity to subject so unimportant a cause-there is yet a lesser and an intermediate tribunal. No man's real reputation, small or great, is made by his exact contemporaries: it is the generation succeeding, yet witnessing his own-the generation some eight or ten years his junior - by which he is tried. To that generation-not in the spirit of dejection or of boasting-but as the first fair and dispassionate tribunal I can obtain, I confide the fate of this work, and of those which, in humbler prose, have been, from the first to the latest, actuated by the same objects-objects that may keep alive in me, indeed, the love of fame; but which yet can console me, if I am forbidden to attain it." Preface.

It is evident from these last remarks, that Mr. Bulwer was bent upon fun. His main object was to avail himseif of the facilities obviously afforded by the monstrous union of two distinct and very different persons in one body and one fate, to get up a sort of Comedy of Ertors, abounding in what has distinguished all pieces on the same plan since Plautus' Amphitryon-amusing contradictions and farcical Harliquinades, which the author in this instance hoped to render more piquant by a satirical reference to contemporary history and character. Having no great taste for buffoonery, at best, we have never relished such extravagances even in the hands of Shakspeare and Moliére, but it appears to us that the machinery of the author in this "satirical tale" is positively disgusting. Sosia brought to doubt his own identity-the Dromios perpetually exchanging places with one another, are simply laughable objects. The farce may be objected to as broad and vulgar, perhaps; still it is pure, and rather pleasant farce. But how is it possible that the monstrosity which is the very foundation of the plot in the "Siamese Twins," should be turned into ridicule without shocking good taste? The imagination of man, it appears to us, has never conceived a more horrible situation than that of our heroes Chang and Ching. To pass one's whole life at the bottom of a dungeon, or in an iron mask, were mercy to such a destiny. It is, in short, a fit subject for him who painted the long sufferings of the "Prisoner of Chillon," and for him alone. Had this strange and almost unimaginable variety of human wo, occurred to Lord Byron, we have no doubt but his genius would have made of it 'a tale' whose lightest word would have frozen the blood of the reader.

It is no answer to say, that the" Siamese Twins" of Mr. Bulwer are merely imaginary personages-and plead for him