Lucky were those in that day procession up the river whose craft could linger in the upper reaches until all the glory of night was ablaze. The warships outlined in strings of electric lamps, the lights on the moving craft, the monuments on shore brilliantly set off with skeleton tracing of light, building after building on both sides of the river glowing with electric lights in every fantasy of device and color, the houses one and all lit up at every window, the tower of Madison Square one mighty shaft of light. Farther South the sky-piercing tower of the Singer building like a glowing mural crown dominated the vast field of the twenty-story office buildings, all illuminated to their roofs. In the harbor the Liberty Statue shone in an island of light. Up the East River a special glory was seen with its three great bridges spanning the stream in glittering cobwebs of light that hung between the water and the sky. All the buildings on the New York and Brooklyn shores swam in a shimmering golden haze. The avenues were long lines of diamonds strung from pillar to pillar, and then to the north a wonderful aurora of fan-spread search-lights, and from a dozen points over the island and the rivers spouted, great fountains of fireworks storming the heavens with jets of colored fire. It was fascinating, intoxicating, and the millions watched it in a daze from nightfall until midnight when at last the city and the river were left to the stars. THE IRISH CONCERT.