Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/An Epistle to the Editor from "Anonymous"

An Epistle to The Editor

from

"Anonymous."

Dear Friend, it does my old heart cheer,
To learn the time is drawing near
When of my works the world will hear
By your selection:
I do not know well what to say
For th' honour you to me thus pay,
May all success 'tend you, I pray,
And your collection.

But honest wish may selfish seem
To bid success, and I your theme;
Yet when I heard, the Anon, scheme
Tickled my fancy.
I wrote as all the world will know
Purely for good, not fame or show,—
Since none for failure write, I trow,—
Success enhance ye.

Right glad am I this circumstance
Grants me the leave to make advance:
Trust me, I'll use all vigilance
Not to out-run
The care I ever did maintain,
Which does my modesty explain,
For to the end I will remain
Your friend "Anon."

Why would I thus address you? Well,
While you would fain my praises swell,
I'd have you to the public tell
What I have done
In case it is not in your plan,—
That you may my life history scan
Since e'er this world of ours began,
And yet, unknown.

Not that I wish you to narrate
My birth, my parentage, estate,
Nor all my life details collate,
For these would fail;
Tell how I did myself employ,
Tell how I roamed a gleeman coy,
And touched of old "the wood of joy,"
Sang history's tale.

Look at my legendary lore;
My ballads sung in days of yore,
Your literati now adore,
The people praise;
These so-called "good old times" have flown,
The minstrel's "occupation's gone,"
We're better, wiser, greater grown
In latter days.

E'en long ere Anglo-Saxon times
Rejoiced in me, I sang my rhymes,
And, wandering in many climes,
Did fame acquire;
Ere Hesiod or Homer sung,
Ere Sophocles or Sappho sprung,
Ere Seneca or Virgil strung
The poet's lyre.

When persecution first did drain
The Christians' blood, in Nero's reign,
My hymns did soar in sweetest strain,
On wings of prayer.
E'en ere the Royal Psalmist's day,
My voice was heard in holy lay;
If earlier ages you survey,
I'm traced even there.

There many imitators were,
From early days who fain would share
With me my fame, my garb did wear,
To suit their aim.
King Alfred as a minstrel lone;
Dickens from "Boz" has famous grown;
And Scott was called "The Great Unknown"—
The name I claim.

But Anon. Letters I disclaim,
Written by those who 'neath my name,
Would hide their cowardice and shame,
They raise my ire;

They from the line of duty swerve,
To nothing noble they ennerve,
No warm reception they deserve,
Except—the fire!

I hear this question asked of you,—
But, why publicity eschew?
Why keep "unknown to public view?"
I'll answer give.
I court not fame, it is secure,
Though many products may be poor,
I know the worthy will endure,
The good will live.

Obscurity I did not choose
Lest, peradventure, "Scotch Reviews
Me scribbler dub, denounce my muse,"
With pen severe.
I'm unassuming, you're aware;
I need no "patron's gen'rous care,"
Nor wish before the world to glare,
Nor critics fear.

'Tis wise this policy of mine,
Details of self to self confine,
For pilgrims would flock to my shrine,
And I've no crave
Eor idolising reverence;
When 'tis a place of no pretence,
I, inconvenience and expense,
Admirers save.

Since all details are hid from view
(I dare not tell them e'en to you)
I'd ask that you my works look through,
And you will learn
All of me you need wish to find,
My genius, character, and mind,
My genuine love for all mankind,
You will discern.

I fancy when your work is o'er,
'Twill be a sample, but, no more;
You'll find that my gigantic store
Would volumes make:
My fertile mind 'twill serve to show,
The public more of me will know,
And may on me more care bestow,
For my works' sake.

On my effusions, when good wine,
To hear the critics read, assign
To other master hands than mine,
Amuses one;
"Oh, this is excellent," they say,
"Bears it not genius' touch, I pray,"
But they, in their good time and way
Are stamped "Anon."

Look closely and my gifts descry,—
In truth to tell them I feel shy,
As linguist, few with me will vie,
For I have made
Translations from, to, every tongue;
Musicians, too, I rank among;
Composer, too, of sacred song,
To worship aid.

As benefactor, too, you'll find,
In meliorating human kind,
I do not fall in far behind
The princely donor;
If my experience I'd express,
The pious who relieve distress
Find what flows in in happiness
Is more than honour.

Pray take not my remarks amiss,
Explain them alt, and then add this:
"An ever-living author is
Our Anon, friend."
Enough, I need not more rehearse,
Nor eulogise myself in verse,
All I have said you will endorse
From end to end.

If asked that you my rank assign
Amongst the mighty, pray decline;
Assured that safe is the last line
On Fame's proud scroll;
Then to "The Temple" walk will I,
"Anonymous" sign silently,
And with becoming modesty
Wind up the Roll!