them; odd
Chinese patterns in brilliant colors, all angles and surprises, with no
likeness to any thing in nature; and exquisite little bits of landscape in
soft grays and whites. Last night was one of his nights of reminiscences
of the mosaic-workers. A furious snow-storm was raging, and, as the flaky
crystals piled up in drifts on the window-ledges, he seemed to catch the
inspiration of their law of structure, and drew sheet after sheet of
crystalline shapes; some so delicate and filmy that it seemed as if a jar
might obliterate them; some massive and strong, like those in which the
earth keeps her mineral treasures; then, at last, on a round charcoal
disk, he traced out a perfect rose, in a fragrant white powder, which
piled up under his fingers, petal after petal, circle after circle, till
the feathery stamens were buried out of sight. Then, as we held our breath
for fear of disturbing it, with a good-natured little chuckle, he shook it
off into the fire, and by a few quick strokes of red turned the black
charcoal disk into a shield gay enough for a tournament.

He has talent for modelling, but this he exercises more rarely. Usually,
his figures are grotesque rather than beautiful, and he never allows them
to remain longer than for a few moments, often changing them so rapidly
under your eye that it seems like jugglery. He is fondest of doing this at
twilight, and loves the darkest corner of the room. From the half-light he
will suddenly thrust out before you a grinning gargoyle head, to which he
will give in an instant more a pair of spider legs, and then, with one
roll, stretch it out into a crocodile, whose jaws seem so near snapping
that you involuntarily draw your chair further back. Next, in a freak of
ventriloquism, he startles you still more by bringing from the crocodile's
mouth a sigh, so long drawn, so human, that you really shudder, and are
ready to implore him to play no more tricks. He knows when he has reached
this limit, and soothes you at once by a tender, far-off whisper, like the
wind through pines, sometimes almost like an Aeolian harp; then he rouses
you from your dreams by what you are sure is a tap at the door. You turn,
speak, listen; no one enters; the tap again. Ah! it is only a little more
of the ventriloquism of this wonderful creature. You are alone with him,
and there was no tap at the door.

But when there is, and the friend comes in, then my companion's genius
shines out. Almost alwa