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253 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#