The mountain Democrat., 1864-12-31
ANoNYrors.-fn looking over an old

ANoNYHous.-In looking over an old
number Of tho London Punch, we find
ssss'sgs;scn ss ;.,s S.SSt @lS - 6s*eSraS%Si
! author:
: Of"Auon." but little is known, though
bis works are excessively numerous. lie
has dabbled In everything Prose and
poetry are alike familiar to his pen. One
moment be will be up the highest fights
Of philosophy, and the next he will be
down in some kitchen garden Of literature,
cutting an enormous goosebecry, to pre-
sent it to the columns Of some provincial
paper. His contributions are scattered
wherever the English language is read
Open any volume Of Miscelanies at any
place you will, and you are sure to fall
upon some nice little bit signed by
Anon" What a mind his must have
been! 1t took in eyerything==like a pawn
brokers' shop. Nothing was too trifiing
for its grasp. Now he was hanging on
the trunk of an elephant, and explaining
to you how it was more elastic than a
pair Of India rubber braces /; and next he
bridge, with series Of monkeys tails. ty-
ing them together. as they do pocket
handkerchieis in the galleries of theater,
when they want to fish up bonnet that
has fallen into the pit.
Anon" is one Of our greatest authors.
If all the things that are signed with
Anon. s" name were collected on rows
of shelves, he would require a British
Museum all to himself. And yet of this
great man so little is known that we are
not acquainted even with his Christian
name. There is no certificate Of baptism,
no mouldy tombstone, no musty washing.
bills in the world, on which we can hook
the smallest line Of speculation as to
whether it was John or James, Tom or
Dick, or Billy canon" Shame that q
man should write so much, and yet be
known so little. Oblivion uses the snuff
ers sometimes very unjustly.
On second thoughts, perhaps it was
well that the works Of Anon" were not
collected together. His reputation for
consistency would not, probably, be in.
creased by the collection. 1t would be
found frequently that he had contradicted
himself. lie might often be discovered
on both sides Of u truth, jumping boldly
from the right side over to the wrong and
ilinging big stones at any one who dare
aSsail him in either position. With one
who had written so many thousand VOL
umes, who had twirled his thoughts as
with map on every possible subject, how
was it possible to expect anything like
consistency? How was it likely that he
could remember every little atom out of
the innumerablc atoms his pen had heap
ed up?
"Anon." ought to have been rich; but
he lived in an age when piracy was the
fashion, and when booksellers walked
about, like Indian chiefs, with the skulls
Of the authors they had slain hung round
their necks. No wonder, then, that We
know nothing of the wealth of "Anon."-
Doubtless, he died in garret, like many
other kindred spirits, death being the on
ly score out of the many knocking at bis
door that he could pay. But to his inn
mortal credit, be it said, he has 6lled
more libraries than the most generous pa
irons of literature. The volumes which
formed the fuel of the barbarians' bonfire
at Alexandria would be but small book
stall by the side Of the octavos, quartos
and duodecimos he has pyrafRidfzed on
our shelves. Look through any catalogue,
and you will find that large proportion
of the works in it have been contributed
by "Anon." The only author who can
in the least compete with him in fccundi-
ty is Ibid"