lacquered, the sea-green, the green yellow, the
gold dust, the deep gold, the Pompadour rose,
the deep blue, the bright blue, and other
colours of pottery and porcelain; and we are
told how, by employing zinc white, cobalt
blue, yellow ochre, vermilion, lake, ivory
black, Naples yellow, silver white, Veronese
green, yellow lake, bitumen, raw sienna,
burnt sienna, cadmium, March violet, carmine,
ultramarine, gold varnish, gold powder,—we
are told how all these, or some among the
number, combine to produce tints which will
imitate the ground colour of all varieties of
pottery and porcelain. And we are cautioned
against numerous snares and pitfalls into
which our ignorance may lead us. If our
paint be too opaque, it will spread with difficulty
over the surface of the glass; if it be
too thin, it will not cover the glass with
sufficient body; if it be not equable in distribution,
it will fail to imitate the homogeneity in
the appearance of porcelain; if there be not
enough mixed at once, it will be difficult to
match the tint afterwards; if it be made to
flow more easily, it may dry more tardily.
As to the mode of applying the colours, there
seems to be two varieties—brushing and
flowing. The application with a brush is the
most obvious; but the teachers assure us
that it is difficult to avoid inequalities in the
touch of the brush, and that, therefore, the
method of flowing or flooding is preferred.
In this process the liquid colour is poured
into the vessel, and is rolled about in every
direction, after which the surplus is poured
out into a cup or other receptacle. One flooding
seldom leaves a sufficient thickness or
opacity of colour, and a second is hence
required. This process is very similar to that
by which artificial pearls are produced. A
greyish liquid made from fish-scales being
blown through a little tube, a drop at a time,
into hollow glass beads, and then rolled
about.

Phrenologists say that man is blessed with
an organ of colour, the greater or lesser
development of which indicates a greater or lesser
capacity for appreciating the chromatic
elements of a picture; and the potichomanist
hints pretty strongly that the success of a
student in this art will depend in a considerable
degree on the magnitude of this said
organ. He declares first that the faculty of
what painters call colour, is not given to
every one; he further declares that those
who possess this faculty will produce in
potichomania, as in painting, works far superior
to the production of those who are not
endowed with it, inasmuch as the former will
be artists, while the latter will be nothing
more than skilful workmen, or clever imitators;
he acknowledges that the art of
potichomania is still in its infancy; but he roundly
prophesies that, like the great art of painting,
it will have its school, its masters, its disciples,
its imitators— securing a place for itself
among decorative arts, developing its
resources in the embellishment of our apartments
and furniture, and bringing honour
and praise to its artists. May the prediction
be verified, in spite of the jar-frenzy name
given to the art! Glass has advanced much
in usefulness and beauty, since the change in
the excise duties; and unless grim war shall
urge the finance minister again to throw his
longing eyes to glass, we may hope that the
usefulness and the beauty, consequent in
great part on cheapness, will be yet farther
increased.

PASSING CLOUDS.

WHERE are the swallows fled?
           Frozen and dead,
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.
           O doubting heart!
      Far o'er the purple seas,
      They wait, in sunny ease,
      The balmy southern breeze,
To bring them to their northern home once more.

Why must the flowers die?
            Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.
            O doubting heart!
      They only sleep below
      The soft white ermine snow,
      While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays
            These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
             O doubting heart!
      The stormy clouds on high
      Veil the same sunny sky,
      That soon (for spring is nigh)
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light
            Is quench'd in night.
What sound can break the silence of despair?
            O doubting heart!
      Thy sky is overcast,
      Yet stars shall rise at last,
      Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.

CHAMBERS IN THE TEMPLE.

FIFTEEN years ago, when I was a schoolboy
in Paris, wearing a uniform very much
resembling that of a Metropolitan policeman
(the dress is military now, and they have
metamorphosed my old college into an Imperial
Lyceum) eating a distressing quantity of
boiled haricots, washed down by the palest
of pink wine and water, and conjugating a
prodigious quantity of verbs, regular and
irregular—the tenses of which have become so
very preterpluperfect since, that they have
faded clean away from my memory—fifteen
years, then, since, there was an old gentleman
inhabiting the English, or, St. Honoré quarter
of the French capital—a white-headed, stormy,
battle and weather-beaten veteran of the salt
sea—a rear-admiral in the English navy, and on