All was clearly and definitely arranged by the time she arrived at the door of Sir Philip Hastings' house. Her face was cleared of every cloud, her whole demeanor under perfect control. She was the Mrs. Hazleton, the calm, dignified, graceful Mrs. Hazleton, which the world knew; and when she descended from the carriage with a slow but easy step, and spoke to the coachman about one of the springs which had creaked and made a noise on the way, not one of Sir Philip Hastings' servants could have believed that her mind was occupied with any thing more grave than the idle frivolous thoughts of an every-day society.
The shrewdest and most successful of politicians has given us the secret of his policy in the words, Follow the public so closely that you shall seem to lead it.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Continued from page 201
MUSIC.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE
BY H. W. PARKER.
The singing spheres
Entranced the very time they measured out;
And memory drew me back to one sweet year,
When, born anew to thought and love, the earth
Was new, and music—fancy's dancing light
Till then—became a dazzling revelation.
'Twas in a city, midway from the hymns
Of Trenton and Niagra. 'Twas an eve
When a whole nation sighed, as hour by hour,
The news electric ran that he was dying,
The Palo Alto hero. Then and there,
I hear the orchestra that once had winged
The festal hours when first the hero stood,
A nation's chief. To me, the hall, the crowd,
Were not; I watched a window-square of sky
Deepen from tender blue to night profound;
And, as it deepened, heard the voice of Time,
All Time, all joy and sorrow, madness, woe,
And saw a thousand forms of light and gloom,
From music born. Distorted faces glared;
Long lines of star-browed angels circled down,
And ages dead were summoned back to earth.
The horn rang out the joy of happy souls;
The viol screamed and laughed in scorn, and groans
Rose dread and deep from under gulfs of night.
The past, the future life of self, of all.
Before me crowded, wailed, entreated, warned,
Battled, triumphed, or struggled wildly past,
A long procession.
Good for me the hour
When music, erst a sylph or monster form,
Assumed the glory that immortals wear,
And sang to me the messages of Heaven.
It nerved me newly for the war of life,
Of truth, humanity. Now, a naked soul,
I dwelt within the central court of space—
No globe immense, but the aye changing point,
Where centred, hangs the whole creation's weight,
Light as a snow-flake, on the hand of God.
The trill of myriad stars, the heavy boom
Of giant suns that slowly came and went,
The whistlings, sweet and clear, of lesser orbs,
And the low thunder of more distant deeps,
Ever commingling, grew to eloquence
No earthly brain may bear. The universe
Had found a voice: the countless souls that fill
The countless earths, were calling each to each,
In tones as high as heaven, as deep as hell,
And many as the many words. I felt
What is existence, what the vast extent,
The mystery, and the far result....