A FORECAST

By

J. Marion Shull

It is evening. Within the park are gathered many thousands from the Capital. Not only these but many hundreds from outside as well, for on this night in May the world's most famous master of the bells is to present the initial concert on Washington's great Carillon.

For long the unsightly mingled mass of stone and steel and wood that crowned the hill had given little indication of its ultimate intent. From time to time processions came that seemed to the onlooker like pilgrimages to some sacred shrine; Tri-color and the Stars and Stripes in front, to music of the Marseillaise, is brought a stone from shattered Rheims, the gift of France, whose gift of freedom to the world we thus record. From the Argonne, from Chateau Thierry and St. Mihiel, come other stones escorted by our own brave boys. These each, with fitting ceremony, are builded in the wall of our memorial. Then there are other stones from Arras, Amiens, and villages along the Marne where broke the surging wave that all but overwhelmed the world; one from Verdun inscribed "They shall not pass"; and Belgium's king pays tribute from the ruined treasures of Louvain. And so in after years the pilgrims at this shrine shall read, passing from stone to stone, an epic of heroic sacrifice that justice and the love of fellow man might not be swept forever from the earth.

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.

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.