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 nearWhen of my works the world will hearBy your selection:I do not know well what to sayFor th' honour you to me thus pay,May all success 'tend you, I pray,And your collection.
But honest wish may selfish seemTo bid success, and I your theme;Yet when I heard, the Anon, schemeTickled my fancy.I wrote as all the world will knowPurely for good, not fame or show,—Since none for failure write, I trow,—Success enhance ye.
Right glad am I this circumstanceGrants me the leave to make advance:Trust me, I'll use all vigilanceNot to out-runThe care I ever did maintain,Which does my modesty explain,For to the end I will remainYour friend "Anon."
Why would I thus address you? Well,While you would fain my praises swell,I'd have you to the public tellWhat I have doneIn case it is not in your plan,—That you may my life history scanSince e'er this world of ours began,And yet, unknown.
Not that I wish you to narrateMy 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 grownIn latter days.
E'en long ere Anglo-Saxon timesRejoiced 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 strungThe poet's lyre.
When persecution first did drainThe 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 shareWith 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 chooseLest, peradventure, "Scotch ReviewsMe 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 craveEor 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 learnAll 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 storeWould 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, assignTo 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 wayAre 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 madeTranslations 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 behindThe princely donor;If my experience I'd express,The pious who relieve distressFind what flows in in happinessIs more than honour.
Pray take not my remarks amiss,Explain them alt, and then add this:"An ever-living author isOur Anon, friend."Enough, I need not more rehearse,Nor eulogise myself in verse,All I have said you will endorseFrom end to end.
If asked that you my rank assignAmongst the mighty, pray decline;Assured that safe is the last lineOn Fame's proud scroll;Then to "The Temple" walk will I,"Anonymous" sign silently,And with becoming modestyWind up the Roll!