A moment's pause; some silent, unseen hand has swiftly changed the scene, and now there comes a barcarolle, so sweet, so placid, while the ear perceives the eye beholds, a wide expanse of rippling wavelets neath shimmering moonlight of a summer night. One feels upon the cheek the soft caress of summer airs nor knows for certainty if it be true or only fancied, but presently the winds have risen and, is it felt, or is it only heard, the rhythmic rocking of the boat that lulls the spirit with a tender lullaby? But what was that? A far away, intrusive rumbling breaks the spell and many eyes are turned to scan the gray horizon for sign of coming storm; but all is fair, no flash of lightning, no banks of inky clouds. Instead of distant thunder there is now the booming sound of waves that beat themselves to spray against the rocks; and to those ears most well attuned, above the deep toned bass, in higher bells is heard the counterpart of that same spray, light effervescence of the master's art. At length the current leaps and bounds, in grand crescendo, irresistibly, and pours itself in one torrential rush of sheer descent, a veritable Niagara of sound that holds the audience spellbound in its grasp. Then turbulent uproar and dissonance give way to chords of fullest harmony and once again is heard the theme of rocking waves all placid as at first. The concert closes with the National Air, as is our wont, but played as never had it been played before on our own soil, the clear, pure tones dropping from high aloft as shaken from the very folds of our bright emblem there, each scintilant note a star, flung off in ecstasy, to bear a message to the ears of men, of peace on earth, but peace with freedom still. The last vibration dies away and in its place a half reluctant murmur from the throng, as if they fain would leave the spell unbroken, now swells in volume and resolves itself into the myriad sounds of congregated life; a babel of voices full of wonderment that metals snatched from war's accouterments could ever speak like that; full also of the thought that Washington, enriched by this new art, new to America tho old elsewhere, is destined thereby to become the Mecca of many a music-lover's pilgrimage from every nook and corner of the land. End of Project Gutenberg's The Washington Peace Carillon, by J. Marion Shull