{"id":"01KG8AKXT6EZW3AD3DXNJ2NJ4R","cid":"bafkreifacyl5pq2cx3sfqjkngq642lvl5qlapa36j2h3q7chz6blc5lpoe","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":10003,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:14.842Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 5","source_file":"01KG89J1GP71YDJ60P8SRH97MF","start_line":9921,"text":"with devotional sunsets!—what flying buttresses, and gable-ends, and\r\nniches with saints!—But stop! ’tis a Moorish iniquity; for here, as I\r\nlive, is a Saracenic arch; which, for aught I know, may lead into some\r\ninterior Alhambra.\r\n\r\nAy, it does; for as Carlo now turns his hand, I hear the gush of the\r\nFountain of Lions, as he plays some thronged Italian air—a mixed and\r\nliquid sea of sound, that dashes its spray in my face.\r\n\r\nPlay on, play on, Italian boy! what though the notes be broken, here’s\r\nthat within that mends them. Turn hither your pensive, morning eyes;\r\nand while I list to the organs twain— one yours, one mine—let me gaze\r\nfathoms down into thy fathomless eye;—’tis good as gazing down into the\r\ngreat South Sea, and seeing the dazzling rays of the dolphins there.\r\n\r\nPlay on, play on! for to every note come trooping, now, triumphant\r\nstandards, armies marching—all the pomp of sound. Methinks I am Xerxes,\r\nthe nucleus of the martial neigh of all the Persian studs. Like gilded\r\ndamask-flies, thick clustering on some lofty bough, my satraps swarm\r\naround me.\r\n\r\nBut now the pageant passes, and I droop; while Carlo taps his ivory\r\nknobs; and plays some flute-like saraband—soft, dulcet, dropping\r\nsounds, like silver cans in bubbling brooks. And now a clanging,\r\nmartial air, as if ten thousand brazen trumpets, forged from spurs and\r\nswordhilts, called North, and South, and East, to rush to West!\r\n\r\nAgain—what blasted heath is this?—what goblin sounds of Macbeth’s\r\nwitches?—Beethoven’s Spirit Waltz! the muster-call of sprites and\r\nspecters. Now come, hands joined, Medusa, Hecate, she of Endor, and all\r\nthe Blocksberg’s, demons dire.\r\n\r\nOnce more the ivory knobs are tapped; and long-drawn, golden sounds are\r\nheard—some ode to Cleopatra; slowly loom, and solemnly expand, vast,\r\nrounding orbs of beauty; and before me float innumerable queens, deep\r\ndipped in silver gauzes.\r\n\r\nAll this could Carlo do—make, unmake me; build me up; to pieces take\r\nme; and join me limb to limb. He is the architect of domes of sound,\r\nand bowers of song.\r\n\r\nAnd all is done with that old organ! Reverenced, then, be all street\r\norgans; more melody is at the beck of my Italian boy, than lurks in\r\nsquadrons of Parisian orchestras.\r\n\r\nBut look! Carlo has that to feast the eye as well as ear; and the same\r\nwondrous magic in me, magnifies them into grandeur; though every figure\r\ngreatly needs the artist’s repairing hand, and sadly needs a dusting.\r\n\r\nHis York Minster’s West-Front opens; and like the gates of Milton’s\r\nheaven, it turns on golden hinges.\r\n\r\nWhat have we here? The inner palace of the Great Mogul? Group and\r\ngilded columns, in confidential clusters; fixed fountains; canopies and\r\nlounges; and lords and dames in silk and spangles.\r\n\r\nThe organ plays a stately march; and presto! wide open arches; and out\r\ncome, two and two, with nodding plumes, in crimson turbans, a troop of\r\nmartial men; with jingling scimiters, they pace the hall; salute, pass\r\non, and disappear.\r\n\r\nNow, ground and lofty tumblers; jet black Nubian slaves. They fling\r\nthemselves on poles; stand on their heads; and downward vanish.\r\n\r\nAnd now a dance and masquerade of figures, reeling from the side-doors,\r\namong the knights and dames. Some sultan leads a sultaness; some\r\nemperor, a queen; and jeweled sword-hilts of carpet knights fling back\r\nthe glances tossed by coquettes of countesses.\r\n\r\nOn this, the curtain drops; and there the poor old organ stands,\r\nbegrimed, and black, and rickety.\r\n\r\nNow, tell me, Carlo, if at street corners, for a single penny, I may\r\nthus transport myself in dreams Elysian, who so rich as I? Not he who\r\nowns a million.\r\n\r\nAnd Carlo! ill betide the voice that ever greets thee, my Italian boy,\r\nwith aught but kindness; cursed the slave who ever drives thy wondrous\r\nbox of sights and sounds forth from a lordling’s door!\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 5"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJSA78862MZ0NS5DXGF21","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1GP71YDJ60P8SRH97MF","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKXSYDX9VTRRXTPZ3CP67","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:20.294Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:33.570Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}