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their arrows in the air, so as to fall perpen
dicularly on the heads of those gathered
round the person of their heroic monarch. —
William, himself, taught his men the mode
of stratagem. u He drew the bow, as he sat
on his steed —the arrow flashed up, and de
scended to the heart of the reserve, within a
few feet of the standard. ; So, that standard
he your mark,’ said the duke, giving back
the bow. The archers withdrew; the orders
circulated through their bands, and in a few
moments down came the iron hail. It took
the English host as by surprise, piercing hide
cap and even iron helm: and, in the very
surprise that made the men look up, death
came. * * * * Even still in age, when
Teuton had yet in his veins the blood of
Odin, the demi-god, even still one man could
delay the might of numbers. Through the
crowd the Norman beheld, with admiring
awe, here, in the front of their horse, a single
warrior, before whose heavy axe spear shiv
ered, helm drooped—there, close by the stand
ard, standing breast-high, one, still more for
nidable, and even amidst ruin, unvanquished,
•tood. * * * * With lifted blades and
whirling maces, the Norman knights charge
swiftly “through the breach. ‘Look up—look
up! and guard thine head!’ cries the fatal
voice of Heco to the king. At that time the
king raised his flashing eyes—why halts his
stride ?—why drops the axe from his hand?
As he raised his voice, down came the hissing
death-shaft. He reeled—he staggered —he
fell—several yards at the foot of his standard.
With desperate hand he broke the head of
the shaft, and left the barb quivering in the
anguish. Gurth knelt over him. ‘Fight
on,’ gasped the king; ‘conceal my death.’
Rallying himself for a moment, he sprang to
his feet, clenched his right hand, and fell
once more—a corpse.”
(Eclectic of tOit.
From the Monthly Magazine.
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER.
To write an anonymous letter is ungentle
manly; of this there can be no doubt—nay,
more, it is mean, dastardly, skulking, depra
ved ! But what could Ido ? Colonel Plinth
was about to marry his cook
To write an anonymous letter is degrading,
to say the very least. It would require the
skill of a sophist to render it justifiable—per
haps; and yet when Colonel Plinth was go
ing to marry his cook
A vixen—a perfect Saracen of a woman
behind his back; and he a man of nice hon
or, who had gained golden laurels at Seringa
patam, an aid de-camp to Sir David Bald, my
friend! The intelligence had come like a
thunderbolt.
To write an anonymous letter, except un
der the most imperative circumstances, is un
questionably atrocious. I felt that even pos
ited as I was, with the most benevolent in
tentions, conscience —my conscience, as a
gentleman and an officer, would hesitate to
approve it. I paused—l determined to weigh
the matter well; but the conviction fell upon
me like an avalanche, that not a moment was
to be lost! Col. Plinth was on the eve of
marrying his cook
Rebecca Moggs! And he my brother-in
law; the widowed husband of my sainted sis
ter —a K. C. B.—a wearer of four medals,
two crosses, and the order of the golden
fleece—a man w ho had received the thanks of
Parliament —the written approbation of my
Lord Clive—two freedoms in gold boxes—a
man who, had he nobly fell on the ramparts
of Tippoo’s capital, would have been taken
home in rum, and buried in St. Paul’s.
His fragment—his living remains—(for he
possessed only one organ of a sort, having
lost a leg, an arm, an eye, and a nostril) —had
resolved on what I considered a sort of denff
pos'mortem match, with—what?
A biowsy, under-hung menial, w T hose only
merit consisted in cooking mulligatawany,
and rubbing with a soft, fat palm, the wound
ed ankle of his partially efficient leg; a crea
ture whom my lovely and accomplished sis
ter had taken from the breast of her dead
mother, (the woman camp iollow'er received
an iron ball in her brain, from one of Tip
poo's guerilla troops in the jungle,) one whom
Evadne had brought up, with maternal care
in her kitchen —a scullion !—and such a one
to be Col. Plinth’s wife—to take the place of
Evadne! Good God!
To write an anonymous letter is rather re
volting; much mav be said against it; it is
one’s dernier resort; still it had its advanta
ges, and why neglect them? Had Colonel
Plinth not been what he was, were he but a
casual acquaintance or mere friend, then, in
deed—
But he w r as my brother-in-law, my brother
in arms—in a word, Col. Plinth.
sQournm&ifl &mrs b & ib'sr & ash? tie.
Had he been a man who could listen to
reason, who was open to conviction, to w hom
one might venture to speak, why, really—
But he was hot as curry; dreadfully opin
ionated ; techy; easily susceptible of feeling
himself insulted ; careful as to keeping his
pistol-case in such a state as to be ready at a
moment’s notice; a being inflamed, in body,
soul, and complexion, by the spices and sun
of the burning East.
To remonstrate with him would have been
absurd; he would have cut me down with
his crutch : he had amassed three thousand
a year.
To write an anonymous letter was not ex
actly the sort of thing; but W'hy see him
rush into a match which would dishonor him
self, and shed a sort of retrospective shame
on my sainted sister ?
The cook was far from immaculate. A
native servant, whom I discharged at Calcut
ta for repeatedly staying out all night; but
why expose the weak side of humanity ?
And another young fellow T of her acquain
tance, whom I pardoned for having robbed
me, on condition of his frankly confessing
all his misdemeanors.
Besides, there was Larry the trumpeter.
And one or two more.
Under such circumstances, conscious of his
infatuation, I ceased to waver; the end sanc
tified the means ; and I wrote him an anony
mous letter.
She, of course, would make a point of hav
ing children; and then, w r here w r ere my ex
pectations ?
To say nothing of being nine years my se
nior, he was a w T reck, a fiery wreck, full of
combustibles, burning gradually to the wa
ter’s edge.
The sun of his happiness would, as I felt,
set forever, the moment he married such a
creature as Moggs; innately vulgar; repul
sive; double-chinned ; tumid; protuberant.
Social festivity waseverythfngtoCol. Plinth,
but who could dine with him if his cidevant
cook were to carve? Evadne’s adopted;
Larry the trumpeter’s love! I could not!
Therefore, under a sense of overwhelming
duty to Col. Plinth, I wrote him an anony
mous letter.
Every precaution was taken; the hand
was disguised; the paper such as T had nev
er used ; and, to crown all, I dropped the im
mortal letter in a distant and very out-of-the
way post-office.
Conscious of perfect security, animated by
the cause I had espoused, I flayed away upon
him from my masked battery, with prodigious
vehemence. Reserve was out of the ques
tion ; in an anonymous letter, the writer of
course speaks out ; this is its great advan
tage. I took a rapid review of his achieve
ments; I called the accomplished Evadne to
his mind’s eye; I contrasted her with his pre
sent intended; Larry, the trumpeter, figured
in, and the forcible expression as to Csesar's
wife was not forgotten. I rebuked, I argued,
1 ridiculed, I scorned, I appealed to his pride,
I mentioned his person. I bade him consult
a cheval glass, and ask himself if the reflec
tion were that of a would-be bridegroom. I
told him how old he was; what the Indian
army would think; in short, the letter car
ried upon the face of it the perfect conviction
of a thirty-two pounder. Here and there I
was literally ferocious.
I dined alone that day, and was taking my
wine in the complacent consciousness of hav
ing done all in my power, when Col. Plinth
knocked. Os course I knew his knock : it
was always violent: but on this occasion
rather less so than usual. I felt flurried : as
he ascended, my accurate ear detected a
strange footstep on the stair. Hastily pour
ing out and gulping down a bumper, 1 con
trived to rally before my friend entered.
Commonly his countenance was turbid ;
billowy ; rufus; the red sea in a storm : now
it was stony, pale, implacable ; he was evi
dently white hot with wrath. His eye, usu
ally as that of a Cyclops at the forge, was
cold, clear, icy; his look froze me; I had
seen him thus before, in the breach at Se
ringapatam.
His salute was charmingly courteous; he
begged leave to introduce a friend, Baron Ca
liooz, a noble Swede in the Prussian service.
Never before had I beheld such a martinet:
where could Plinth have picked him up?
The Baron, in very good English, expressed
his concern at making so valuable an ac
quaintance as that of Mocassin, under such
felicitous circumstances. Col. Plinth had
been insulted; but, as I had so long been his
most valuable friend, as we bad fought and
bled on the same fields, as those arms, (his
right and my left,) which had been so often
linked together, were mouldering side by side
in the same grave, and as I was his brother
in-law, Colonel Plinth would accept of the
amplest possible apology; with any other
man than Major Mocassin, Col. Plinth would
have gone to extremities at once:
I Was petrified during his speech; but at
the conclusion, some sort of inquiry staggered
from my lips.
Baron Cahooz did not understand.
I declared myself to be in the same predica
ment. Would he be so good as to explain?
In reply, the Baron hinted that I must be
conscious of having written Col. Plinth a let
ter. Fearing that Col. Plinth’s suspicions
had been aroused, and that this was a ruse to
trap me into a confession ; remembering my
precautions, and feeling sure that nothing
could, by any possibility, be brought home to
me, unless I turned traitor to myself; I de
nied the imputation point blank! Indeed,
what else could I do?
Col. Plinth uttered an exclamation of bit
ter contempt, and hobbled towards the door.
Baron Cahooz handed me his card ; noth
ing farther could be done; he hoped the
friend, whom I might honor on the occasion,
would see him as early as possible, in order
to expedite the necessary arrangements!
I made a last effort. Advancing towards
the door, where Plinth stood, I begged to pro
test that I was myself; that he must be la
boring under a mistake.
“A mistake!” shouted he in that tremen.
dous tone, which for a moment had once ap
palled the tiger-headed tippoo ; “ a mistake,
Major Mocassin! There’s no mistake, sir
rah! Will you deny your own hand-writ
ing?”
So saying, he threw the letter into my face
and retired, followed by Cahooz.
In another moment the veil was torn asun
der. Having never before attempted an
anonymous letter, and acting under the influ
ence of confirmed habit, I concluded the fatal
epistle, without disguise, in my customary
terms—“ Yours ever , John Mocassin.”
Cjomc (Eorrrsponircncc.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW-YORK LETTERS-NO. 32.
Rath bun Hotel, New York , )
Dec. 6, 1848. \
My Dear Sir —Literature, the Arts, and
the Drama, are now, happily, the absorbing
themes of interest in Gotham. The first, re
vived by the numerous late publications, in
prose and verse—the poems of Miss Lynch?
of Mrs. Anna L. Lewis, of Mrs. Sigourney,
of Mr. Holmes, and others—the new edition
of Irving, the anonymous publication of Mo
ney-penny, and so on —all of which, I, for
the present, commit to the tender mercies of
your “book table,” deferring my own “sen
timents” thereof to another occasion. The
second—to resume my trio—forcing their
claims upon the public consideration, in the
magnificent displays of our Art Unions, with
the three hundred beautiful works of our own
painters in the “American” Institution, and
the chef d'ccuvrcs of European masters in the
“ International” —and again, with the sister
art of Music, by the deluge of concerts, of
all grades, and the attractions of the Italian
Opera. Add this last item to the credit of
the Drama, together with a world of interest
ing things at all our many theatres, and my
paragraph is complete.
The paragraph, but not the subject, is end
ed, for you must permit me to “improve”
that a little. The town has been all agog
for the past week, with an emeute in Astor
Place. Benedetti, the favorite tenor of the
Opera, in rashly presuming upon his popu
larity, to indulge his capricious whims, rais
ed a tempest, in which, nothing but his la
tent good sense and his confessed grace, sav
ed him from entire wreck. Last Wednesday
night, Mr. Manager Fry advanced hurriedly
to the foot-lights, and informed the audience
that in an interview which he had just had
with Signor Benedetti, in his dressing-room,
that gentleman had declared his intention not
to play the following evening (Friday) in
Norma, because he considered the cast of
Madame Laborde, in that character, perfectly
ridiculous! This unexpected announcement
brought down the house upon the head of the
devoted rebel. When Mr. Fry returned to
the green-room, a personal rencontre occurred
between him and the tenor. Benedetti accu
sed him not only of running to the audience,
like a school-boy, with his idle tale of gr j ev .
ances, but of having misrepresented the facts
:In short, he gave him the astounding pi ece 0 f
intelligence that he “lied!” For this, the
i obliging manager returned a “ fist” f u ’l|
| thanks; when the accomplished Signor made
i a P ass at him with his sword, and had the
happiness to scratch the hand of one of the
I committee of the subscribers ! Before the
: night was over, the “subscribers” held a
meeting, and addressed a polite note to the
autocrat of song, respectfully begging him to
sing with Madame Laborde, in Norma, on the
following Friday evening, as announced in
the bills. To this the gallent Benedetti re
sponded, that he would oblige them with all
! the pleasure in the world! Next day, the
papers, most ail being in the service of the
manager, rained down horrors upon the ten
or, for his rebellion against discipline, and
j especially his gross insult to Laborde. The
j following morning, Benedetti issued a card
; explanatory and apologetic, in which he very
j cleverly excused his conduct, repented of his
operatic sins, and grieved most profoundly if
he had in aught, unwittingly, etc., injured
the feelings of Madame or her friends. This
: timely amende saved him, yet not before lie
was further punished. So great was the
public interest in this affair, that on the mem
j orahle Friday evening, the Opera House was
crowded to excess. The friends of both par
ties anticipated a “ row,” and went prepared
to sustain their favorites. When the curtain
rose, and the Prospero of the Tempest, “be
wildering Benedetti,” as Fanny Osgood calls
him, appeared as Pollione, with the calum
niated Laborde as Norma, he was overwhelm
ed with hisses and all sorts of expressions of
popular disfavor, insomuch that it being im
possible for him to make himself heard, he
retired from the stage. Mr. Fry then appear
ed, and after informing the audience that the
Signor had apologized to Madame Laborde,
and that the misunderstanding between the
gentleman and himself had, so far as the pub
lie was concerned, been arranged, he begged
i that the Opera might be permitted to proceed.
The awful and indignant public were mag
nanimous, and consented to receive the prod
igal. By this time, Benedetti, considering
himself driven from the stage, had re-donned
his usual attire, and another difficulty ensued
1 in inducing him again to dress and continue
his part. During the rest of the evening, al
though he never more exerted his brilliant
powers to please, he was coldly received,
while Madame Laborde was overwhelmed
with applause and bouquets. Apropos of
bouquets—l noticed a pleasant little incident
at the close of the representation of Norma,
with the same cast, on Monday night last. —
As Benedetti, leading Laborde and Petti by
the hand, was retiring from the stage, and at
the moment when the ladies had passed from
view, two rich bouquets fell upon the floor.
Benedetti, instead of appropriating them to
himself, as before this storm he might very
justly have done, drew his companions hack,
and directing their attention to the tributes,
picked them up and with inimitable grace
presented them to Laborde! At this act, the
entire house burst forth in applause—not of
poor Benedetti—he was still in purgatory —
but of Madame. Benedetti, through the whole
of these scenes, has borne himself so bravely,
and so well, that one wonders how he could
have been so thoughtless as to have created
them. His talents as an artist are so great,
that with all his faults, the public will soon
re-instate him in favor, and love him still.
The secret of the matter is, that Mr. Fry, the
manager, is a Yankee and a business man;
he is resolved to have things his own way ■
to compel each one to perform his part, in
stead of leaving them to indulge the fancies
which Italian Opera singers conceive they
have eternal right to do. To get over the
difficulty which the plea of a “severe cold”
on the part of any artist might create, he has
sagaciously supplied himself with duplicate#