As you do not _know_ me, I take it for granted that this communication
will not be honored with a place in the "Messenger;" for I have
discovered by your "editorial remarks," that the authors of almost all
the pieces which adorn the columns of that work, are persons _already_
distinguished in the literary world, (as, for instance, "Death among
the Trees," "the production of a distinguished female writer already
known to fame,") or else they are individuals with whom you have a
personal acquaintance,--as the author of "Lines on the billet of an
early friend," whom you "know as a gentleman of fine taste and varied
endowments," &c. &c. Now all this is very well, and no one can object
to it, so long as the productions of those persons are really worthy of
your notice, or of a place in the Messenger. And as the pieces which I
have just quoted are very beautiful, I can make no objections to
_them_. But how the authors of some of the poetical effusions which
grace the columns of your fifth number, have managed to get into your
good graces, is to me a mystery, unless it was through a personal
acquaintance with yourself, and your reluctance to wound their feelings
by refusing to publish their pieces, for I know that you have too much
taste to have published them through choice. I do not pretend to say
that the poetical contributions for the Messenger are, generally
speaking, indifferent; on the contrary, I believe it contains more
truly excellent original poetry, than any periodical I have ever seen.
Even the fifth number is not entirely destitute of beauty in this line.
It contains several very talented and beautiful pieces of original
poetry; among which, the piece headed "Beauty without Loveliness,"
stands pre-eminent. I have seldom met with a more chaste and beautiful
piece of composition than that. In my opinion, it is surpassed by
nothing that has ever appeared in the Messenger, unless it be the piece
to "Ianthe," in the fourth number, beginning--"Think of me," &c. and
signed "Fergus." You have not thought either of those pieces worth
noticing in your "_remarks_;" but I am confident that if you will read
them again, you will agree with me in thinking that they are surpassed
by nothing that the Messenger has ever contained.
But while I admire these and many other beautiful _gems_, I cannot but
marvel why you should crowd your columns with such trash as most of the
pieces contained in your fifth number. For example, the "Song of the
Seasons," by "_Zarry Zyle_," the "youth of _unquestionable talent_,
perception," &c. He certainly must be a youth of _great perception_,
and judges every one by himself, or else he never would have inflicted
upon the public the _study_ of his "_song_." I perfectly agree with you
in thinking it advisable for him to change his _style_, and write less
obscurely; for as we are not all youths of _his perception_, it is
quite difficult for us
"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.