- end_line
- 10003
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.842Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 9921
- text
- with devotional sunsets!—what flying buttresses, and gable-ends, and
niches with saints!—But stop! ’tis a Moorish iniquity; for here, as I
live, is a Saracenic arch; which, for aught I know, may lead into some
interior Alhambra.
Ay, it does; for as Carlo now turns his hand, I hear the gush of the
Fountain of Lions, as he plays some thronged Italian air—a mixed and
liquid sea of sound, that dashes its spray in my face.
Play on, play on, Italian boy! what though the notes be broken, here’s
that within that mends them. Turn hither your pensive, morning eyes;
and while I list to the organs twain— one yours, one mine—let me gaze
fathoms down into thy fathomless eye;—’tis good as gazing down into the
great South Sea, and seeing the dazzling rays of the dolphins there.
Play on, play on! for to every note come trooping, now, triumphant
standards, armies marching—all the pomp of sound. Methinks I am Xerxes,
the nucleus of the martial neigh of all the Persian studs. Like gilded
damask-flies, thick clustering on some lofty bough, my satraps swarm
around me.
But now the pageant passes, and I droop; while Carlo taps his ivory
knobs; and plays some flute-like saraband—soft, dulcet, dropping
sounds, like silver cans in bubbling brooks. And now a clanging,
martial air, as if ten thousand brazen trumpets, forged from spurs and
swordhilts, called North, and South, and East, to rush to West!
Again—what blasted heath is this?—what goblin sounds of Macbeth’s
witches?—Beethoven’s Spirit Waltz! the muster-call of sprites and
specters. Now come, hands joined, Medusa, Hecate, she of Endor, and all
the Blocksberg’s, demons dire.
Once more the ivory knobs are tapped; and long-drawn, golden sounds are
heard—some ode to Cleopatra; slowly loom, and solemnly expand, vast,
rounding orbs of beauty; and before me float innumerable queens, deep
dipped in silver gauzes.
All this could Carlo do—make, unmake me; build me up; to pieces take
me; and join me limb to limb. He is the architect of domes of sound,
and bowers of song.
And all is done with that old organ! Reverenced, then, be all street
organs; more melody is at the beck of my Italian boy, than lurks in
squadrons of Parisian orchestras.
But look! Carlo has that to feast the eye as well as ear; and the same
wondrous magic in me, magnifies them into grandeur; though every figure
greatly needs the artist’s repairing hand, and sadly needs a dusting.
His York Minster’s West-Front opens; and like the gates of Milton’s
heaven, it turns on golden hinges.
What have we here? The inner palace of the Great Mogul? Group and
gilded columns, in confidential clusters; fixed fountains; canopies and
lounges; and lords and dames in silk and spangles.
The organ plays a stately march; and presto! wide open arches; and out
come, two and two, with nodding plumes, in crimson turbans, a troop of
martial men; with jingling scimiters, they pace the hall; salute, pass
on, and disappear.
Now, ground and lofty tumblers; jet black Nubian slaves. They fling
themselves on poles; stand on their heads; and downward vanish.
And now a dance and masquerade of figures, reeling from the side-doors,
among the knights and dames. Some sultan leads a sultaness; some
emperor, a queen; and jeweled sword-hilts of carpet knights fling back
the glances tossed by coquettes of countesses.
On this, the curtain drops; and there the poor old organ stands,
begrimed, and black, and rickety.
Now, tell me, Carlo, if at street corners, for a single penny, I may
thus transport myself in dreams Elysian, who so rich as I? Not he who
owns a million.
And Carlo! ill betide the voice that ever greets thee, my Italian boy,
with aught but kindness; cursed the slave who ever drives thy wondrous
box of sights and sounds forth from a lordling’s door!
- title
- Chunk 5