The cumbering tools of industry, the cranes with creaking ropes, the scaffolding, at last have disappeared, and stands revealed a wondrous work of art: A sturdy sculptured basal edifice where bronze and marble tell of noble aspirations worthily achieved; where frieze and pediment in low relief bespeak the glory of the greatest cause man ever struggled to maintain. Within, resplendent walls with iridescent colors where the artist's brush takes up the tale that architect and sculptor have begun; and rivalling these the silken folds of flags, emblems of all the nations that stood shoulder to shoulder in the great emprise. And from this basal structure, the soaring shaft, compact of grace and beauty, lithe yet strong, firm footed on the earth yet reaching heavenward, well typifies the spirit of the men who risked their all to save the world from slavery. The sun has set behind light banks of cloud and hung the stage with ruddy tapestries whose gorgeous reds and golds are interspersed with turquoise. But even while the throng in wonderment looks on, change follows change, the gold to topaz quickly melts, the roseate clouds are all empurpled, and the turquoise sky gives way to grays such as delighted Whistler in his day. Then twilight, stars, and a pale young moon, to play at hide and seek among the wisps of cloud whose silvery sheen betrays her hiding place. At last the hour has struck and all is hushed expectancy. All eyes are lifted up to where a faintly lighted window in the tower gives forth the one suggestion that some human agency is there. Hark! What is that? A faint sweet sound that comes from out the sky as if the gates of heaven had opened and let fall ethereal voices from a thousand miles, so soft, the ear is strained to intercept them, and fancy is half tempted to believe it all illusive and imagined melody. But now it takes more shape, stands out more firm and clear; the ear becomes more confident, and fancy yields to fact; it is indeed the carillon's voice; the bells have come to life. No gasping natal cry is this, but rather the soft stirring as of one that wakes from peaceful sleep. Nearer and ever nearer, wave on wave, out of infinite distance seem to come those far off melodies, drifting down and down as gently as drifts the snow when winds are hushed, till at last the entire heavens seem filled with one pulsating ecstasy of sound, then fades away into the distance once again, till tower, bells, musician, forgotten one and all, the music seems to come from mystic space behind yon bank of cloud that lies athwart the moon. Again, a sound of trampling hosts of mighty horsemen rushing down the heights as if to overwhelm the listening multitude, those marvellous arpeggios galloping madly in their course, now dance and prance, now rush impetuously, then lift and fade to airy nothingness and silence.