The International Monthly, Volume 2, No. 4, March, 1851

He heard of her proposed visit to Mrs. Hazleton with pleasure, and expressed it. "I am very glad to hear you are to be with her," he said, "for I do not think Mrs. Hazleton is well. She has lost her usual spirits, and has been very grave and thoughtful when I have seen her lately."

"Oh, if I can cheer and soothe her," cried Emily eagerly, "how delightful my visit will be to me. Mrs. Hazleton says in her letter that she is unwell; and that decided me to go to her, rather than to London."

"To London!" exclaimed Mr. Marlow, "I had no idea that you proposed such a journey. Oh, Sir Philip, do not take your daughter to London. Friends of mine there are often in the habit of bringing in fresh and beautiful flowers from the country; but I always see that first they become dull and dingy with the smoke and heavy air, and then wither away and perish; and often in gay parties, I have thought that I saw in the young and beautiful around me the same dulling influence, the same withering, both of the body and the heart."

Sir Philip Hastings smiled pleasantly, and assured his young friend that he had no desire or intention of going to the capital except for one month in the winter, and Emily looked up brightly, saying, "For my part, I only wish that even then I could be left behind. When last I was there, I was so tired of the blue velvet lining of the gilt vis-a-vis, that I used to try and paint fancy pictures of the country upon it as I drove through the streets with mamma."

At length Emily set out in the heavy family coach, with her maid and Sir Philip for her escort. Progression was slow in those days compared with our own, when a man can get as much event into fifty years as Methuselah did into a thousand. The journey took three hours at the least; but it seemed short to Emily, for at the end of the first hour they were overtaken by Mr. Marlow on horseback, and he rode along with them to the gate of Mrs. Hazleton's house. He was an admirable horseman, for he had not only a good but a graceful seat, and his handsome figure and fine gentlemanly carriage never appeared to greater advantage than when he did his best to be a centaur. The slow progress of the lumbering vehicle might have been of some inconvenience, but his horse was trained to canter to a walk when he pleased, and, leaning to the window of the carriage, and sometimes resting his hand upon it, he contrived to carry on the conversation with those within almost as easily as in a drawing-room.

Just as the carriage was approaching the gate, Marlow said: "I think I shall not go in with you, Sir Philip; for I have a little business farther on, and I have ridden more slowly than I thought;" but before the sentence was well concluded, the gates of the park were opened by the porter, and Mrs. Hazleton herself appeared within, leaning on the arm of her maid. She had calculated well the period of Emily's arrival, and had gone out to the gate for the purpose of giving her an extremely hospitable welcome. Probably, had she not hated her as warmly and sincerely as she did, she would have stayed at home; our attention is ever doubtful.

But what were Mrs. Hazleton's feelings when she saw Mr. Marlow riding by the side of the carriage? I will not attempt to describe them; but for one instant a strange dark cloud passed over her beautiful face. It was banished in an instant; but not before Marlow had remarked both the expression itself and the sudden glance of the lady's eyes from him to Emily. For the first time a doubt, a suspicion, a something he did not like to fathom, came over his mind; and he resolved to watch. Neither Emily nor her father perceived that look, and as the next moment the beautiful face was once more as bright as ever, they felt pleased with her kind eagerness to meet them; and alighting from the carriage, walked on with her to the house, while Marlow, dismounted, accompanied them, leading his horse.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Marlow," said Mrs. Hazleton, in a tone from which she could not do what she would—banish all bitterness. "I suppose I owe the pleasure of your visit to that which you yourself feel in escorting a fair lady."

"I must not, I fear, pretend to such gallantry," replied Marlow. "I overtook the carriage accidentally as I was riding to Mr. Cornelius Brown's; and to say the truth, I did not intend to come in, for I am somewhat late."

"Cold comfort for my vanity," replied the lady, "that you would not have paid me a visit unless you had met me at the gate."

She spoke in a tone rather of sadness than of anger; but Marlow did not choose to perceive any thing serious in her words, and he replied, laughing: "Nay, dear Mrs. Hazleton, you do not read the riddle aright. It shows, when rightly interpreted, that your society is so charming that I cannot resist its influence when once within the spell, even for the sake of the Englishman's god—Business."

"A man always succeeds in drawing some flattery for woman's ear out of the least flattering conduct," answered Mrs. Hazleton.

The conversation then took another turn; and after walking with the rest of the party up to the house, Marlow again mounted and rode away. As soon as the horses had obtained some food and repose, Sir Philip also returned, and Emily was left, with a woman who felt at her heart that she could have poniarded her not an hour before.

But Mrs. Hazleton was all gentle sweetness, and calm, thoughtful, dignified ease. She did not suffer her attention to be diverted for one moment from her fair guest: there were no reveries, no absence of mind; and Emily—poor Emily—thought her more charming than ever. Nevertheless, while speaking upon many subjects, and brightly and intelligently upon all, there was an under-current of thought going on unceasingly in Mrs. Hazleton's mind, different from that upon the surface. She was trying to read Marlow's conduct towards Emily—to judge whether he loved her or not. She asked herself whether his having escorted her to that house was in reality purely accidental, and she wished that she could have seen them together but for a few moments longer, though every moment had been a dagger to her heart. Nay, she did more: she strove by many a dexterous turn of the conversation, to lure out her fair unconscious guest's inmost thoughts—to induce her, not to tell all, for that she knew was hopeless, but to betray all. Emily, however, happily for herself, was unconscious; she knew not that there was any thing to betray. Fortunately, most fortunately, she knew not what was in her own breast; or perhaps I should say, knew not what it meant. Her answers were all simple, natural and true; and plain candor, as often happens, disappointed art.

Mrs. Hazleton retired for the night with the conviction that whatever might be Marlow's feelings towards Emily, Emily was not in love with Marlow; and that was something gained.

"No, no," she said, with a pride in her own discernment, "a woman who knows something of the world can never be long deceived in regard to another woman's heart." She should have added, "except by its simplicity."

"Now," she continued, mentally, "to-morrow for the first great stop. If this youth can but demean himself wisely, and will follow the advice I have given him, he has a fair field to act in. He seems prompt and ready enough: he is assuredly handsome, and what between his good looks, kind persuasion by others, and her father's dangerous position, this girl methinks may be easily driven—or led into his arms; and that stumbling-block removed. He will punish her enough hereafter, or I am mistaken."

Punish her for what, Mrs. Hazleton?

THE FRIENDSHIP OF JOSEPHUS AND ST. PAUL

In the Princeton Review, the Church of England Quarterly, and other periodicals, there have appeared recently several very interesting articles upon the Voyage of St. Paul to Rome; and in a work entitled "Gleanings on the Overland Route," by the author of "Forty Days in the Desert," just published in London, we find a dissertation "On the Shipwreck of the Apostle Paul, and the historian Josephus," which goes far to prove that Josephus accompanied the apostle to Rome, and that he was in some measure the means of procuring the introduction of the Christians into "Caesar's household." After a summary account of the shipwreck as narrated by St. Luke, aided by such elucidatory particulars as have been supplied by Mr. James Smith in his "Voyage and Shipwreck of St. Paul," the author says:—

"The only real difference between the two accounts of St. Luke and of Josephus is, that Josephus does not mention the stay of three months on the island of Malta. He writes as if the ship were wrecked in the open sea, and he was saved by being at once taken up into the second ship. This very great disagreement in the two narratives we must set to the account of Josephus's inaccuracy. The second ship he rightly calls a ship of Cyrene, for the Alexandrian vessel, in a favorable voyage, may have touched at that port. He adds to the apostolic history the interesting information, that it was through the Jewish actor, Alituries, that he, and, we may add, the Apostle and Christianity, gained an introduction into 'Caesar's household.' That Josephus sailed in the same ship with Paul, we may hold for certain. No Jews born in Judea had the privilege of Roman citizenship; of Jews who had that privilege, the number was so small, that it is not probable that two such appeals to Rome, by Jews from the province of Judea, should have been allowed in the reign of Nero. That two ships, carrying such Hebrew applicants from Judea, should have been wrecked in the Adriatic, from both of which the passengers should have been saved, and landed at Puteoli, and that within the space of three years, we may pronounce impossible. So then the Jewish historian Josephus, when a young man, made the voyage from Cæsarea to Italy with the Apostle Paul, the Evangelist Luke, and their friend Aristarchus, and, for part of the way, with the young Titus. He calls the Apostle his friend, though worldly prudence forbade his naming him. From these fellow-travellers he must have heard the opinions of the Christians. He was able to contradict or confirm all that they said of the founder of our religion, for he was born only eight years after the crucifixion. But Josephus, when he wrote his history and life, was a courtier, and even a traitor to his country—he wanted moral courage, he did not mean to be a martyr, and any testimony in favor of a despised sect is not to be expected from him. The passage in his Antiquities in which Jesus is praised we may give up as a forgery of the third century: it is enough for us to remark, that after having lived for five months with Paul on the voyage from Judea to Italy, he does not write against this earnest teacher of Christianity, as either a weak enthusiast or a crafty impostor. But he praises his piety and virtues, and boasts that he was of use in obtaining his release from prison."

Mr. Smith, to whom allusion is made above, is said to be a gentleman of liberal fortune, and to have carefully studied navigation, and in numerous voyages in his yacht through these seas to have practised it, for the especial purpose of investigating and illustrating the points embraced in this interesting portion of the sacred history. He has pretty satisfactorily established the precise route of the Apostle on this famous journey, which is the most universally familiar of all in ancient or modern life. The curious suggestion of such personal relations between Paul and Josephus is not new; it was made some time in the seventh century in the Reflections of Bernardin Pastouret, and perhaps at an earlier time by others. The author whose words are here quoted, is Mr. John Sharpe, and he has very clearly presented the case.

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[14 - Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.]

Translated For The International Monthly Magazine From the French of H. De St. Georges

Continued from page 359

BOOK IV

I. EXPLANATION OF THE ENIGMA

While the events we have described are taking place at Sorrento, we will retrace our steps to the Etruscan House, where we left Monte-Leone and Taddeo when the latter placed in the hands of the former the letter of La Felina. The Count opened the letter, and read:

"Taddeo—You told me in the prison of the palace of the Dukes of Palma, whither I went to find you, 'Love which speculates is not love. Mine will obey you for obedience' sake. Try, however, to ask something grand and difficult, that you may judge it by its fruits.'"

"Then you love her?" said Monte-Leone, interrupting himself.

"Read on," said Taddeo.

"'Your heart, Taddeo, is noble,' replied I. 'I have faith in it. May God grant that your strength do not betray your courage. In four days you will learn what I expect from you.' I write down what I expect, for I have not courage to tell you. I cannot crush your hopes, though I know that they cannot be realized. The feelings you have avowed to me, Taddeo, demand entire confidence: for it would be a crime to deceive a heart like yours. I will therefore tell you the truth, painful as it may be. It is a year since I came to Naples, having been attracted thither by a brilliant engagement at San Carlo. My success was as great as it had been in the other capitals of Italy. After the applause and ovations of the public—the truest and most discriminating of all—came privileged admirers; those, who, from their rank, birth, and fortune, have a right to pass the curtain of the sanctuary, and cast incense at the very foot of the idol; who can compliment the artiste on the stage, and follow her with their commonplaces to her very box. There was no scarcity of sacrificers. The noblest of Naples overwhelmed me with adulations; from compliments they came to declaration, and there, as at Rome, Venice, and elsewhere, I was persecuted by the insipid gallantries of suitors, to which every successful artiste possessed of any personal attraction must submit. To all these advances my heart remained cold, and my insensibility cost me nothing; for I neither loved nor wished to. A strange event, however, changed my plans. It was an evening of last autumn, and the air was as sultry as possible. Exhausted by the heat of the theatre, after the performance was over I sent my carriage home, and resolved, in company with my confidante, to return on foot. I avoided my many suitors, and escaped from the theatre by a back-door. The air was so pure, and the night so beautiful, that I walked for some time on the chiaja. It was late when I returned homeward. Crossing an isolated street, which I had taken to shorten the walk, my confidante and myself were unexpectedly attacked by a party of men who stood beneath the portico of a palace. They had well-nigh stifled our cries with scarfs, which had been thrown over our heads, and we should possibly have been murdered, when a man, rushing sword in hand, I know not whence, attacked our aggressors, disarmed three of them, whom he put to flight, and killed the fourth by a dagger-thrust. Rapidly as possible, he then took off the bandages from our faces, and gave me, half dead with terror, his arm.

"A carriage passed, the stranger called to it, placed us in it, and said: 'A lady, signora, of your appearance, met in the streets of Naples at such an hour, doubtless is under the influence of some secret motive she would be unwilling to expose. My services to you have been too slight to warrant my questioning you. Now you have nothing to fear, and this carriage will take you any where you please. I will inquire into no orders which you may give.' 'But your name, signore?' said I. 'Count Monte-Leone,' said he, as he disappeared."

"That is true," said the Count. "I never knew, though, whom I had rescued from the hands of bandits."

He then began again to read:

"From that time the Count was, in spite of myself, the object of my constant thoughts and secret meditations. I was very anxious, at least, to know the features of the man, whom I had only seen in the dark; for the services he had rendered me, the courage he had displayed, even the sound of his voice, spoke both to my head and heart. One day, as I was crossing the street of Toledo, some young persons pointed out to me a cavalier, mounted on a noble horse. 'No one but Monte-Leone can ride such an animal as that. No one else rides so well.' 'He is the handsomest and most brilliant of our young nobles,' said another. 'What a pity he gives himself so completely to the people,' said a third. The Count, whom I saw then for the first time, was the realization of all my youthful dreams and illusions. I loved the Count, though I did not know it. From the moment I saw him, my heart and soul were consecrated to him."

A painful sigh, uttered near Monte-Leone, made the Count look at young Rovero, the pallor of whom indicated intense suffering.

"My friend," said the Count, taking his hand, "what matters it if Felina love me, provided I do not love her?"

"Some day you may love her," said Taddeo.

"No," said the Count.

"And why?"

"Because I have but one heart, and that is another's."

A happy smile lighted up the face of Rovero, and Monte-Leone continued to read, with as much sang-froid as if another were the subject of the letter:

"You wished to know which of the four I loved; excuse me, Taddeo, but now I have told you all. From that time I conceived an ardent devotion to Monte-Leone. My passion was, however, of that kind which only demands the gratification of the soul. All I had heard of the Count's character, of his errors, follies, and numerous passions, far from alienating, rendered him still dearer to me. It seemed that his lofty, generous disposition, full of courage and honor, had wanted nothing but a guide, or rather an angel, to wrest him from the torment of the life he had prepared for himself."

The Count paused, and reflected for a few moments, which seemed centuries to Rovero. He then began again to read:

"Ah, had I met Monte-Leone in the days of my innocence, in the days when I also looked for some one to guide my early steps, with my hand in his, with my heart beating against his, I should, perhaps, have avoided the rocks on which I have been wrecked? To the Count, however, I could be now but an ordinary woman, whose attractions might, perhaps, for the moment fascinate him, but whom he would soon cast aside, as he has his other conquests: then I feel I should have killed him!"

The Count quietly read on:

"I loved him too fondly to become his mistress; yet his image pursued me by night and day. At last my heart, in its immense and pure love, inspired me with the noblest and purest idea: 'Be more than a woman, be more than a mistress to him,' said I to myself, 'be a providence, a secret and protecting providence which preserves him in all dangers, and provides all his happiness.' Alas! I fancied that I had to defend Monte-Leone only against the ordinary perils of life, against the rivalry excited by his triumphs, and not against the serious dangers to which his opinions subjected him. I soon heard the rumors which were being circulated about the Count, learned of his danger, and the perilous part he had to play in relation to the secret societies. I learned all this from public rumor, but I needed other aid and information to guide me in the defence of him I loved. Among those most carried away by my talent, and if I must say so, most captivated by my beauty, was the Duke of Palma, minister of police. I received the minister kindly, and without yielding to his persuasions, conferred trifling favors on him. His confidence in me was immense. When I was stern to him he became desperate, but he professed there was such a charm in my company that he sought constantly to see me. Minister as he was, he became not my sicisbeo, for that I would consent to at no price, but my cavaliero sirviente, thus occupying the second grand hierarchy of love. I learned from the minister himself the snares prepared for Monte-Leone, twenty times I informed your friend of them, and enabled him to avoid them. In the same manner I heard of your imprudent folly at the ball of San-Carlo, and you know what I did to avert its consequences. A certain Lippiani, a skilful officer placed by means of my influence in the Neapolitan police, while paying a visit of inspection to the jailor of the Castle Del Uovo, contrived to introduce into the prisoner's loaf the mysterious information he received. The imagination, or rather the genius of the Count, inspired him with a design to secure his liberty. To assure the success of this ruse, the Count escaped for some hours from his prison, and amid that season of trouble, energy, and anguish, Monte-Leone lost the famous ring he always wears. This loss again placed his life and liberty in danger. Then I conceived a hardy and bold plan, which cannot succeed without your aid and devotion. On that, however, for you so promised me, I rely. I learned that you were a prisoner, but were about to be released. You can then aid me, but it is necessary to awake no suspicion. Aware of every outlet to the palace, which had often been shown to me by the Duke of Palma, I remembered a certain secret passage and door hidden in a pillar, whither the Duke often comes, to hear, unseen, the examinations of prisoners. Thither I sought to come. The porter admitted me at night; doubtless, fancying I was come to keep an appointment with his master. Of what value, however, were honor and reputation to me compared with his danger. Now, Taddeo, read with attention the lines I am about to write; follow my advice exactly, or Monte-Leone is lost.

"I obtained possession for a few days of the emerald lost by the Count, and which had been sent by his enemies to the Duke of Palma. At a great cost I caused a similar one to be made by one of the most skilful workmen of Naples. The copy will be easily recognized: that is what I wish. I have substituted it for the original, and placed it myself in the minister's jewel case, the key of which he had given to me to take an antique cameo, the design of which I wished. The false ring will be given to the Count, instead of the true one, which is in the coffret I have placed by you. Go to Monte-Leone's house, during the night after your release. I am too closely watched now, to dare go thither myself. Give this ring to the old servant, tell him to deliver it to the judges, but not till the trial. The enemies of whom I spoke will be overcome by this pretended proof of their imposition, and the safety of the Count will be sure. I have told you all. Now, Taddeo, excuse me for having pained you by my disclosure. Excuse me for having unfolded all my heart to you, excuse me for having permitted you to read my most secret sentiments. Your love deserves something better than mine; but if it inspire you with any pity for me, rescue the Count from the executioner, and know that to save Monte-Leone is to save La Felina."

"What a woman!" said the Count, as he let fall the letter; "what passion and devotion!"