"To comprehend, the mystery of what he means."
If, instead of talking about "amethystine beams," "bugle-bees," (a new species I presume, as I never heard of them before; perhaps Zarry meant "bumble" bee,) "old summer's conck," robins with golden breasts, (they used to be red,) and gauze wings, and "soughing blasts," &c. &c. he would give us a little more common sense and a little better measure in his next, we will like it better. But if Mr. Zyle's song were the only objectionable piece contained in the fifth number,—or if it were the worst that it contained, we might "grin and bear it." But there are many others even more dull and common than this. I will name but one more—"The Passage of the Beresina." Now I appeal to you as a man of candor and good taste, to know if there is any thing in this effusion which should entitle it to a place in the Messenger? Has it one single attribute of true poetry? If it has I beseech you to point it out in your next number, for I confess I cannot discover one. No, it has not even measure. I beg you to take the trouble to read it over again, for I am certain you never gave it a very careful perusal, or you never would have printed it; your taste is too good. Read it once more, and if you can discover any thing like poetry, or even like common sense in the following lines, I hope you will let us know what it is in your next:
| "Thousands lie here; kindred and aliens in race, They are rigid and fix'd in death's cold embrace; They clench and they cling in the last dying grasp, And the living, the dead, reluctantly clasp: Or, fearing a friend in his last cold embrace, They spurn him beneath to his dark dreary place." |
Now I say if you can discover any thing like poetry in these lines, or can tell us how thousands who are "rigid and fixed in death's cold embrace," can "clench and cling," or "spurn" a friend to his "dark dreary place," you will very much oblige more than one of your subscribers. I could make you many other quotations from the same piece, equally as obscure as the above. As—
| "With unearthliest cries, grim phantasied shapes Brood o'er the senses ere the spirit escapes; On the wings of the wind how swift speeds the blast, With pinions all viewless it fleets as the past;— Oh say, does it bear the spirits that have fled, In the last bitter strife, ere the dying be dead?" |
I should presume not, as it would be rather a difficult matter for the spirit to have fled before the "dying be dead." Now the idea of the "blast's speeding on the wings of the wind," is certainly original; but not satisfied with this, the author has also hoisted death upon the same wings. I wonder what the wind did in the meantime? Took it a-foot, I s'pose; or perhaps it borrowed death's wings for a few moments.
The two last lines of this piece would be very pretty, if it did not unfortunately happen to be impossible for the "smile of Hope" to linger upon the "face of the dead" before "the spirit be fled." Dead, fled, and dread, seem to be favorite rhymes with this author.
Your correspondent from "Eastern Virginia," has given you some excellent advice: I hope you will follow it next time.
You say, those who dislike the contents of the Messenger, should write better pieces themselves. I do not exactly agree with you. We pay for reading the paper, and are entitled to the best pieces that are written for it, and not merely those of your personal friends and acquaintances. I am one of your subscribers, and most sincere well wisher.