In appalling
masks; hideous, hairy, red-eyed Jacks in Boxes; Vampire Kites;
demoniacal Tumblers who wouldn't lie down, and were perpetually
flying forward, to stare infants out of countenance; his soul
perfectly revelled. They were his only relief, and safety-valve.
He was great in such inventions. Anything suggestive of a Pony-
nightmare was delicious to him. He had even lost money (and he
took to that toy very kindly) by getting up Goblin slides for
magic-lanterns, whereon the Powers of Darkness were depicted as a
sort of supernatural shell-fish, with human faces. In intensifying
the portraiture of Giants, he had sunk quite a little capital; and,
though no painter himself, he could indicate, for the instruction
of his artists, with a piece of chalk, a certain furtive leer for
the countenances of those monsters, which was safe to destroy the
peace of mind of any young gentleman between the ages of six and
eleven, for the whole Christmas or Midsummer Vacation.
What he was in toys, he was (as most men are) in other things.
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