moderate cutting and embankment, the general rise to the summit level need not exceed, in one direction, ten feet in the mile, and in the other eighteen feet. The route passes through a remarkably well-timbered country, which will not only afford abundant material at little expense for the construction and repair of the wood-work of the road, but will furnish the very best fuel for the engines. The timber and the wood for fuel on this road, together with the produce of plantations and the return trade, may be not unreasonably expected in the first sixty miles, to pay a sufficient profit on that part of the work, and when the whole line to Hamburgh is open, we shall realize all the advantages anticipated from the road to that point. Branches must be made to Columbia and to Camden; these towns, and those who are in their vicinity, cannot suffer their trade to be turned into other channels by the want of a little enterprise. But if we anticipate much from these sources, we may, in the language of Sir J. Mackintosh, when speaking of the steam-engine, ask—“ what may not a sanguine hope whis'per to itself as to the future. For ourselves, we confess that in contemplating what has been done, we entertain trembling 'hopes, that we should not choose to expose to the eye of the 'scorner"-when we extend our view to embrace the Western States by extending the rail-road to the Tennessee river. In descending the Ohio river, and ascending the Tennessee to the Muscle Shoals, and thence to Charleston by the extended line of rail-road, the trip may be performed in ten days from the junction of those rivers in this direction, and in about seven days in returning. Linked by such a tie we may yet see Charleston what she ought to be, second in the United States only to New-York.

The mode of construction adopted for the rail-road, is to drive wooden piles every six feet apart in parallel lines; the heads of these piles are bound together by transverse sleepers, these are surmounted by the longitudinal wooden-rail about nine inches square, in various lengths from fifteen to thirty-feet, on the top of which, on the inner side, the flat bar iron is nailed. The tracks are about five feet apart, and as locomotive engines are to be used, there is no road formation, and it is only where the level cannot be otherwise formed that the spade is used, and then merely to make the cutting through which the rail is to be continued. This method is not only economical, but if the piles are properly driven and the superstructure well executed, will more certainly secure the rail from sinking than the usual method of supporting it on blocks of wood or stone imbedded into the road. Another advantage is, that in passing

through cultivated fields much fencing may be saved by digging a wide, deep ditch under the rails, where they enter and pass out of the field in a transverse direction and running the common field fence through it, thus continuing the former line of the fence, only running it under the rails. The greatest objections to the whole plan of construction, are the exposure of the wood work to rapid decay, which cannot be avoided, though it may be lessened, and the rails being liable to cant in a lateral direction, which may be avoided by placing the feet of the piles further apart in the transverse direction of their heads.

When the road has once been completed it will afford such facilities, that wood, or stone for repairs, may readily be obtained and transported along the line at little expense.

Six miles of this road are complete and two steam-carriages are now in operation on it, conveying materials for the continuation of the road, and passengers for amusement. They are found to answer expectations, though they, no doubť, admit of improvements, particularly in their fire-places and boilers, as the fuel used is wood in place of coal.

Most of the road is now located over ground more favourable than that over which the experimental survey was made. The saving between the actual cost of iron for the rails and fastenings, and the estimated cost is now ascertained to be very considerable, amounting to upwards of seventy-five thousand dollars. The road has been located for upwards of sixty miles, and crosses the Edisto, the only river in the whole line to Hamburgh, at a point very favorable, and where it may be effected at less expense than at the direction first contemplated. This line bas this further advantage, that the branches to Columbia and Camden, from the main line of the road, may be effected in much less distance than by that first designed. Contracts are already made at reasonable prices, for the work on most of the line that is located-and offers for further contracts are daily made. We may confidently calculate upon a speedy completion of this great work, and upon its operation producing most important and beneficial results, such as will convince even the most opposed, and gratify the most sanguine and zealous.

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 "tragica! 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 claims 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, on 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.

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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