# 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!