Richmond Enquirer

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE ANONYMOUS LETTER.

To write an anonymous letter is ungentlemanly: of that there can be no doubt—nay, more, it is mean—dastardly—skulking—depraved! But what could I do? Colonel Plinth was about to marry his cook—

To write an anonymous letter is degrading, to say the least: it would require the skill of a Sophist to render it justifiable—perhaps; and yet when Colonel Plinth was going to marry his cook—

A vixen—a perfect Saracen of a woman behind his back; and he a man of nice honor—who had gained golden laurels at Seringapatam—an aid-de-camp of Sir David Baird—my friend! The intelligence had come like a thunder-bolt

To write an anonymous letter, except under the most imperative circumstances, is unquestionably atrocious. I felt that, even positive as I was,—with most benevolent intentions,—conscience—my conscience, as a gentleman and an officer, would hesitate to approve of it. I paused—I determined to weigh the matter well; but the conviction fell upon me like an avalanche that not a moment was to be lost! Colonel Plinth was on the eve of marrying his cook

Rebecca Moggs! and he my brother in law—the widowed husband of my sainted sister—a K. C. B., a wearer of four medals, two crosses, and the order of the golden fleece—a man who 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 nostril)—had resolved on what I considered a sort of demi-post-mortem match, with—what?

A blowsy, underhung menial, whose only merit consisted in cooking mulligatawny, and rubbing with a soft fat pulpy palm the wounded ankle of his partially efficient leg; the offspring of a Sepoy pioneer, whom my lovely and accomplished sister had taken from the breast of her dead mother (the woman—a camp follower—received an iron ball in her brain from one of Tippoo'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 Colonel Plinth's wife—to take the place of Evadne!

Good God!

To write an anonymous letter is rather revolting; much may be said against it; it is one's dernier resort: still it has its advantages—and why neglect them?—Had Colonel Plinth not been what he was—were he but a casual acquaintance or a mere friend—then indeed—

But he was my brother-in-law—my brother in arms— in a word, Colonel Plinth,

Had he been a man who would listen to reason—who was open to conviction—to whom one might venture to speak—why really

But he was hot as curry; yet not deficient in sense; but dreadfully opinionated—tetchy—easy 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— 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 £3000 a year.

Under such circumstances—conscious of his infatuation, I ceased to waver: the end sanctified the means; and I wrote him an anonymous letter.

She, of course, would make a point of having children— and then where were my expectations.

Evadne, my sister, had never been a mother; the Colonel was the only Plinth in the universe; and, posted

I was—Evadne being the link—I naturally had expectations.

To say nothing of being nine years my senior, he was a wreck—a fiery wreck, full of combustibles, burning gradually to the water's edge.

The sun of his happiness, would, as I felt, set for ever, the moment he married such a creature as Moggs—innately vulgar—repulsive—double chinned—tumid—pro-tuberant

Social festivity was every thing to Colonel Plinth: but who would dine with him, if his ci-devant cook were to carve?—Evadne's adopted—Larry the Trumpeter's love!

—I couldn't.

Therefore, under a sense of overwhelming duty to Colonel Plinth, I wrote him an anonymous letter.

Every precaution was taken: the hand was disguised— the paper such as I had never used; and, to crown all, I dropped the important document in a distant and very out-of-the-way post office.

Conscious of perfect security—animated by the cause I had espoused, I played away upon him from my masked battery, with prodigious vehemence. Reserve was out of the question; in an anonymous letter the writer, of course, speaks out; this is its great advantage. I took a rapid review of his achievements.—I recalled the accomplished Evadne to his mind's eye—I contrasted her with his present Intended—Larry the trumpeter figured in. and the forcible expression as to Caesar's wife was not forgotten. I rebuked—I argued—I ridiculed—I scoffed:— I appealed to his pride—mentioned his person. I bade him consult a cheval glass, and ask himself if the reflection were that of a would-be-bride-groom. I told him how old he was—what the Indian army would think—to

short, the letter carried 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 having done all in my power, when Colonel Plinth knocked. Of course I knew his knock: it was always violent; but on this occasion rather less so than usual. I felt flurried: he ascended, my accurate ear detected a strange footstep on the stair. Hastily pouring out and gulping down a bumper, I contrived to rally before my friend entered.

Commonly his countenance was turbid—billowy—rufous the Red Sea in a storm;—now it was stony—pale— implacable: he was evidently white-hot with wrath. His eye—usually lurid as that of a Cyclops at the forge—was cold—clear—pier; his look froze me—I had seen him thus before—in the breach at Seringapatam.

His salute was alarmingly courteous: he begged leave to introduce a friend—Baron Cabooz, a noble Swede in the Prussian service. Never before had I beheld such a manikin: where could Plinth have picked him up?

The Baron, in very good English expressed his concern at making so valuable an acquaintance as Major Moccasin under such infelicitous circumstances. Colonel Plinth had been insulted: but as I had so long been his most valued friend—as those arms (his right and my left) which had been so often linked together, were mouldering, side by side, in the same grave—as I was his brother-in-law, Colonel Plinth would accept of the amplest possible apology;—with any other man than Major Moccasin, Colonel Plinth would have gone to extremities at once.

I was petrified during this speech; but at its conclusion some sort of an inquiry staggered from my lips.

Baron Cabooz did not understand.

I declared myself to be in the same predicament: would he be so good as to explain?

In reply, the Baron hinted that I must be conscious of having written Colonel Plinth a letter.

Fearing that 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 denied the imputation point blank! Indeed, what else could I do?

Colonel Plinth uttered an exclamation of bitter contempt, and hobbled towards the door.

Baron Cabooz handed me his card—nothing further 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 protest that I was mistaken—that he must be laboring under a mistake.

"A mistake!" shouted he in that tremendous tone, which once appalled the tiger-hearted Tippoo—"A mistake, Major Moccasin! There's no mistake, sirrah! Will you deny your own hand writing?'

So saying he threw the letter in my face and retired, followed by Cabooz.

In another moment the veil was torn asunder. Having never before attempted an anonymous letter, and acting under the influence of confirmed habit, I had concluded the fatal epistle, without disguise, in my customary terms: —"Your's ever, John Moccasin!!"

Note.

The foregoing paper was drawn up and sent to his cousin in Kentucky by Major Moccasin, a few hours after Colonel Plinth and Baron Cabooz had quitted him. On the inside of the envelope appears the following:—"Tis now midnight—Rear Admiral Jenkinson has settled every thing with the Baron, to their mutual satisfaction: we are to be on the ground by six in the morning. If I fall

After considerable research we have discovered two announcements in the public prints which form valuable appendages to Major Moccasin's document. The first extract is from a London journal published in 1819, the second from a Bath paper of two years later date.

No. I.

"Yesterday at his own residence in Wimpole St., by special licence, Colonel Plinth, K. C. B. to Rebecca Louiza Moggs, a native of Masulipatam. The Gallant Colonel went through the ceremony with his only remaining arm in a sling—having a few hours before exchanged shots—both of which took effect—with Major Moccasin."

No. II.

"The busy tongue of fame reports that a Gallant Major, who served with distinction, and lost an arm, under Sir David Baird in the East Indies, is about to lead to the altar the dashing relict and sole legatee of a brave and affluent brother officer who recently died at Cheltenham. A mutual attachment is supposed to have been long in existence; for the bridegroom elect fought a duel on the lady's account with her late husband, on the very morning of the marriage. Pecuniary motives may perhaps have influenced the fair one in giving her hand on that occasion to the Gallant Major's more fortunate rival."

A. W. A.