The main line of railway runs, like an iron vertebra, a kind of backbone, from north to south; the directors of the southern line of railway, realising the necessity of extension, and desirous of giving easy access to all parts of the country, have laid down branch lines in all directions, running out like the arms of an octopus, grasping at distant towns and villages, and halting at the most beautiful secluded spots in the inmost quarters of the land. Having due regard to the fact that people will not travel unless they can do so with a tolerable amount of ease and comfort, the projectors of the southern lines of railway have paid due respect to the requirements of the public, and have formed their plans and carried on their operations with a view to the convenience and comfort of their temporary guests. The lines are carefully laid over level roads with the best steel rails, and are carried through some of the most picturesque as well as the most weird and wild portions of the country. The carriages are new, the drawing-room and sleeping cars elegantly fitted up with luxurious spring seats, mirrors, and gorgeous surroundings. In order to insure safety, so far as safety can be assured in any branch of human life, the trains are in the command of the most experienced engineers, and are supplied with the patent Westinghouse automatic air brakes, and all other new and improved appliances, so as to reduce the risk of travelling to a minimum degree. Everything is done with leisurely dignity and quietude in the South; there is no bustle or confusion, no general rush, even at the depots. The iron horse, in his bright brass harness, comes up to the platform with a few dignified snorts; there is no puffing, nor blowing, nor demoniacal shrieks, as though a score of fiends were struggling to get free from their fiery prison. He deposits his living freight according to their several desires; then, answering to the call of the engine-bell, as a good steed responds to the spur of his rider, with a stately tramp moves onward, the thin blue smoke curling from his cavernous nostrils, as though he were some metallic monster going for an evening stroll with a gigantic cigar between his iron lips. Those who take delight in going at express speed must abandon that idea in travelling South. There is no rapid transit there, no “Lightning Express” nor “Flying Dutchman” thunders through those sylvan scenes; but you are carried along at a decorous pace, at the rate of twenty, sometimes thirty, miles an hour. This is a great gain to those who travel for pleasure only, as they are enabled thoroughly to enjoy the scenery of the state they are moving through.