1826. ] Familiarities— Anonymous. 255 
himself into the Sphinx or the source of the Nile. He stands sentinel at 
the Pole and thaws up all inquiry.—Fortunate and close-riveted Iron 
Mask! happy and inexplicable Junius! thrice-blessed and not-to-be- 
guessed-at authors of Scotch romances and English reviews of them ! 
_—And, floating with the current of this feeling, how mysteriously 
delightful must be the fate of a legitimate descendant of Anonymous— 
one who not only cannot recollect his own name, but who never had one 
to forget—who was born ere patronymic appellations were invented—an 
unlabelled phial in time’s apothecary’s shop—“ Nobody, in a niche”— 
a bona fide ! «a deed without a name.” Only think of being 
distinguished, like Frankenstein’s child of philosophy, by a in the 
bills of our little day. This to my thinking is an expressive and highly 
imaginative title ; it embodies a great deal of the oracular inspiration of 
man, and evinces a masterly condensation of the pathos and eloquence 
of language. It is decidedly superior to Tibbs, and Tomkins, and 
a thousand other names that have never even pretended to a meaning. 
There is at any rate something too open and straight-forward in its 
appearance 6” conceal’ the “Cloven foot “of” speech, ‘Or’ suggest” any 
unnameable associations to eyes polite. It expresses the precise degree 
of praise we profess to bestow on ourselves, and includes the actual 
amount of good we say of other people. I will write an article on it one 
day or other, to shew what a vast portion of popular talent and principle 
is comprized in it. And with such a designation—excluded from parish 
annals and army lists, from Court Guides and actions at law—one might 
steal into a blank corner in some “ boundless contiguity of shade,” where 
the Great Unknown was little known, where a Political Register had 
never been read, where the Catholic Question came in no questionable 
shape, and the mellifluous name of Martin had never been imagined in 
the brayings and bleatings of animals. In such a corner, and with such 
a cognomen, a single gentleman might enjoy his oftum without reading 
his annual obituary in the public prints, or being guilty of Diarys and 
Reminiscences. But he might: enjoy anonymous books, and write 
anonymous verses. He could not deface his trees and windows by en- 
graving his name on them, nor be expected to become sponsor to the 
third and fourth generation of friendship ; but he might wander into the 
society of birds and fish} of woods and streams, until like Democritus he 
became conversant with their language, and listened himself into a new 
and anonymous existence. Methinks the monarchs of the world might 
countenance and cultivate these hints to some advantage. An Anony- 
mous ruler would at least be a novel feature in the chapter of Kings. 
Which of the crowned heads of Europe will be the first to cast off a 
doubtful display of title, and be hailed as Anonymous I.? Perhaps King 
Ferdinand would profit most from the change—but then the difficulty of 
casting over such a name the modest veil of oblivion; it would rather — 
“ The multitudinous seas incarnadine, 
Making the green one red.” 
Well indeed would it be for us and our nomenclature, if certain names 
at the sound whereof the human heart droops and sickens with disgust, 
could be blotted for ever from the record—could be made to die away 
like bubbles into the “vasty deep” of Anonymous. Time may behold 
its shades, what Sheridan makes the winds, the receivers-general « of all 
-off griefs and apprehensions.” Its empire is already spacious 
enough, extending over one-half the globe, into the “bowels of the 
