legenerated into colorless morsels of humanity. How long they can remain uppermost is for themselves to calculate, if they can; it is enough for us who see good wine at the bottom, and lees at the top, to know that there must be a settlement impending. For the inhospitality of Viennese society there is one sufficient reason; it springs out of the dread of espionage. In this city of Vienna alone there are said to be four hundred police spies, varying in rank between an archduke and a waiter. Letters are not safe; writing-desks are not sacred. An office for opening letters exists in the post-office. Upon the slightest suspicion or curiosity, seals have impressions taken from them, the wax is melted over a jet of flame, the letters are read, and, if necessary, copied, re-sealed, and delivered. Wafers are of course moistened by You can not prevent this espionage, but it can be detected (supposing that to be any consolation) if you seal with wax over a wafer. One consequence of the melting and steaming practices of the Austrian post-office is especially afflicting to merchants;-bills come sometimes to be presented, while the letters containing advice of them lie detained by the authorities; acceptance, in the absence of advice, being refused. steam. From the surveillance of the police officials. perhaps not a house in Vienna is free. The man whom you invited as a friend, and who is dancing with your wife, may be a spy. You can not tell; and for this reason people in Vienna-naturally warm and sociable-close their doors upon familiarity, and are made freezingly inhospitable. Yet this grand machine of espionage leaves crime at liberty. Although murder is rare, or at least rare of discovery (there is a Todschauer, or inspector of deaths, but no coroner's inquest), unpunished forgeries and robberies of the most shameless kind outrage society continually. Many of the more distant provinces are infested by gangs of organized banditti; who will ride, during broad daylight, into a country gentleman's courtyard; invite themselves to dinner, take away his property, and insist on a ransom for himself if he has no wish to see his house in flames. When met by troops these bands of thieves are often strong enough to offer battle. But, although the Austrian police can not protect Austrian subjects, it can annoy not only them, but foreigners besides. The English are extremely liable to suffer. One Englishman, only the other day, was ordered to the frontier for a quarrel with his landlady; another, for keeping bad society; another, for hissing a piece of music; three, for being suspected of political intrigue; two for being newspaper reporters. The French have lately come in for their share of police attentions; and we have lost, from the same cause, the company of two Americans. Among the Austrians themselves, the very name of the police is a word of terror. By their hearths they dare barely whisper matter that would be harmless enough elsewhere, but dangerous here, if falling upon a policeman's ears. Recently there was a poem published which professed to draw a parallel between a monarchy and a republic. Of course it was an orthodox and an almost rabid glorification of "sound" absolutist principles. The poet sent a copy to an Austrian noble; who, opening it carelessly, and immediately noticing the word "republic," handed the book back to a servant, with a shudder, and a note to the author acknowledging its receipt, and wondering that the poet "should have thought him (the noble) capable of encouraging republican principles!" This note scarified the feelings of the rhymer intensely. He hurried off to exculpate himself and explain the real aim of his book. He did this, and, of course, his book was bought. This is the state of Austria in 1851. Men of all grades look anxiously to France; well knowing that the events in Paris next year, if they lead to outbreak, will be felt in Vienna instantly. Yet Strauss delights the dancers, and the military bands play their "Hoch Lebe" round the throne. The nobles scorn the merchants and the men of letters; who return the noble scorn with a contemptuous pity. The murmur of the populace is heard below; but still we have the gayest capital in all the world. We throng the places of amusement. Dissipation occupies our minds and shuts out graver thought. Verily, Charles Stuart might be reigning in this capital. THE POTTER OF TOURS. AMONG the choicest works of art contributed to the Great Industrial Exhibition by our French neighbors, were some enameled earthernware vases of remarkably fine workmanship, and particularly worthy of attention for their grotesque yet graceful decorations. These vases had, however, a still higher claim to distinction than that arising from their own intrinsic value, for they were the workmanship of one who may truly be ranked among "nature's nobles," although by birth and station owning no greater title than that of "Charles Avisseau, the potter of Tours.” A worthy successor of Bernard Palissy, he has, like him, achieved the highest success in his art, in spite of difficulties which would have caused most other men to yield despairingly before what they would have deemed their untoward fate. Charles Avisseau was born at Tours on Christmas-day, in the year 1796. His father was a stone-cutter, but whenever labor was slack in that department, he sought additional occupation in a neighboring pottery. While still a child, he used frequently to accompany his father to the factory. His eager attention was quickly attracted by the delicate workmanship of the painters in enamel, and before long he attempted to imi tate their designs. The master of the factory observed some flowers and butterflies which he had sketched on a coarse earthernware vase, and at once perceiving that he gave promise of being a good workman, he engaged him in the service of the factory. The boy now began to feel himself a man, and entered with his whole soul into his work. By the dim and uncertain light of the one lamp around ing little earthernware figures, ornaments for churches, &c., while he passed his nights in study and in making renewed experiments. He bor rowed treatises on chemistry, botany, and miner alogy; studied plants, insects, and reptiles; and succeeded at last in composing a series of colors which were all fusible at the same temperature. One more step remained to be achieved: he wished to introduce gold among his enamel; but, alas! he was a poor man, too poor to buy even the smallest piece of that precious metal. For many a weary day and night this thought troubled him. Let us transport ourselves for a few moments to the interior of his lowly dwelling, and see how this difficulty too was overcome. It is a winter's evening; two men-Charles Avisseau and his son-are seated at a table in the centre of the room; they have worked hard all day, but are not the less intent upon their present occupation which the Avisseau family gathered in the long | further to perfect his art. He accordingly gave winter evenings, Charles would spend hour after up his situation in the factory, and opened a shop hour in tracing out new designs for the earthern-in Tours, where he earned his livelihood by sellware he was to paint on the morrow. He was at first too poor to purchase either pencil or paper, and used to manufacture from clay the best substitute he could for the former, while he generally employed the walls of the apartment as a substitute for the latter. He applied himself indefatigably to the study of every branch of his art-the different varieties of earths, the methods of baking them, the mode of producing various enamels, &c.—until, after some years of patient labor in the humble situation he had first occupied, he was offered the post of superintendent of the manufactory of fine porcelain at Beaumontles-Hôtels. He was still, however, but a poor man; and, having married very young, was struggling with family cares and the trials of penury, when one day there fell into his hands an old enameled earthernware vase, which filled him with a transport of astonishment and delight. This was the chef-d'œuvre he had so often dream--that of moulding a vase of graceful and classic ed of, and longed to accomplish; the colors were fired on the ware without the aid of the white glaze, and the effect was exquisite. "Whose work is this masterpiece?" inquired artists; while the mother of the family, seated the young man. "That of Bernard Palissy," was the reply; a humble potter by birth. He lived at Saintes three centuries ago, and carried with him to the grave the secret of the means by which his beautiful enamels were produced." "Well, then," thought Avisseau, "I will rediscover this great secret. If he was a potter like me, why should not I become an artist like him?" From that hour forward he devoted himself with the most unwearying perseverance to his great pursuit. He passed whole nights over the furnace; and although ignorant of chemistry, and destitute of resources, instruments, or books, he tried one experiment after another, in hopes of at length attaining the much-desired object. His neighbors called him a madman and a fool; his wife, too gentle to complain, often looked on with sad and anxious eye as she saw their scanty resources diminishing day by day-wasted, as she conceived, in vain and fruitless experiments. All his hopes seemed doomed to disappointment, and destitution stared him in the face; yet one more trial he determined to make, although that one he promised should be the last. With the utmost care he blended the materials of his recomposed enamel, and applied them to the ware, previous to placing it in the oven. But who can describe the deep anxiety of the ensuing hour, the hour on which the fondly-cherished hopes of a lifetime seemed to hang? At length with beating heart and trembling hand he opened the furnace; his ware was duly baked, and the colors of his enamel had undergone no change! This was a sufficient reward for all his labors; and even to this day Ayisseau can never speak of that moment without the deepest emotion. But this was not a mind to rest contented with what he had already achieved: he longed still form. Under their direction, two young sisters are engaged in tracing the veins upon some vineleaves which had recently been modeled by the by the chimney-corner, is employed in grinding the colors for her husband's enamels. Her coun tenance expresses a peaceful gravity, although every now and then she might be perceived to direct an anxious and inquiring glance toward her goodman, who seemed to be this evening even more than usually pensive. At last he ex claimed, more as if speaking to himself than ad dressing his observation to others: "Oh, what would I not give to be able to procure the smallest piece of gold!" "You want gold!" quietly inquired his wife; "here is my wedding-ring: if it can help to make you happy, what better use can I put it to? Take it, my husband! God's blessing rests upon it.” So saying, she placed the long-treasured pledge in Avisseau's hand. He gazed upon it with deep emotion: how many were the associations connected with that little circlet of gold-the pledge of his union with one who had cheered him in his sorrows, assisted him in his labors, and aided him in his struggles! And, besides, would it not be cruel to accept from her so great a sacrifice? On the other hand, however, the temptation was strong; he had so longed to perform this experiment! If it succeeded, it would add so much to the beauty of his enamel: he knew not what to do. At length, hastily rising from his seat, he left the house. He still retained the ring in his hand a great struggle was going on in his mind; but each moment the temptation to make the long-desired experiment gained strength in his mind, until at last the desire proved irresistible. He hurried to the furnace, dropped the precious metal into the crucible, applied it to the ware, which he then placed in the oven, and, after a night of anxious watching, held in his hand a cup, such as he had so long desired to see, ornamented with gilt enamel! His wife is she gazed upor. it, although at the same time tear glistened in her eye; and looking proudly upon her husband, she exclaimed: "My wedding-ring has not been thrown away!" Still, Avisseau, notwithstanding his genius, was destined to lead for many years a life of poverty and obscurity. It was not until the year 1845 that M. Charles Sciller, a barrister, at Tours, first drew attention to the great merit of some of the pieces he had executed, and persuaded him to exhibit them at Angers, Poitiers, and Paris. The attention of the public once directed toward his works, orders began to flow in upon him apace. The President of the Republic and the Princess Matilda Bonaparte are among his patrons, and the most distinguished artists and public men of the day are frequently to be met with in his atélier. In the midst of all this unlooked-for suc cess, Avisseau had ever maintained the modest dignity of his character. M. Brongniart, the influential director of the great porcelain manufactory at Sèvres, begged of him to remove thither, promising him a liberal salary if he would work for the Sèvres Company, and impart to them his secrets. "I thank you for your kindness, sir," replied the potter of Tours." and I feel you are doing me a great honor; but I would rather eat my dry crust here as an artisan than live as an artist on the fat of the land at Sèvres. Here I am free, and my own master: there I should be the property of another, and that would never suit me." When he was preparing his magnificent vase for the Exhibition, he was advised to emboss it with the royal arms of England. "No," he replied, "I will not do that. If her Majesty were then to purchase my work, people might imagine I had ornamented it with these insignia in order to obtain her favor, and I have never yet solicited the favor of any human being!" Avisseau has no ambition to become a rich man. He shrinks from the busy turmoil of life-loving his art for its own sake, and delighting in a life of meditative retirement, which enables him to mature his ideas, and to execute them with due deliberation. In the swamps and in the meadows he studies the varied forms and habits of reptiles, insects, and fish. until he succeeds in reproducing them so truly to the life, that one can almost fancy he sees them winding themselves around the rushes, or gliding beneath the shelter of the spreading water-leaves. His humble dwelling, situated in one of the faubourgs of Tours, is well worthy of a visit. Here he and his son-now twenty years of age, who promises to prove in every respect a worthy successor to his father-may be found at all hours of the day laboring with unremitting diligence. A room on the ground-floor forms the artist's studio and museum: its walls are hung with cages, in which are contained a numer us family of frogs, snakes, lizards, caterpillars, c., which are intended to serve as models; rough sketches, broken busts, half-finished vases, lie scattered around. The furnaces are constructed in a little shed in the garden, and one of them has been half-demolished, in order to render it capable of admitting the gigantic vase which Avisseau has sent to the Great Exhibition. There we trust the successor of Bernard Palissy will meet with the success so justly due to his unassuming merit, and to the persevering genius which carried him onward to his goal in the midst of so much to discourage, and with so little help to speed him on his way. KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS. ST. GEORGE'S CROSS. BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO'. A DULL November evening: ghosts of a fog formed the startling feature in the background of aspiring to the summit of a mountain, which a landscape: a melancholy dissonance of swelling, rolling, breaking waves-strong, though not violent, moaning of autumnal winds through the valley, and up the mountain side: dark, heavy masses of cloud-red, and silvery, and leaden where the sun had disappeared: a girl standing lines alternating on the horizon, at the point on an enormous stone that was nearly surrounded by the water, a boy seated on the same rock near her feet; they were Ella, the clergyman's daughter, and George, a shoemaker's son. An arm, white, round, and smooth as a girl's, bared to the elbow, besmeared with blood and India ink, a hand, gliding over it rapidly, making strange tracery as it moved; a voice, soft and melodious, but tremulous in its tones, telling of a heart beating within the speaker's breast that voice saying, was keenly susceptible to every emotion-that "Did I show you the verses that I wrote about our Cross, Ella?" "No! no-did you write verses about it?" down the needle he was using, drew from his Without replying to the words, the boy laid pocket a little book, took from it a paper which he gave to the girl, silently resuming his work. And in the gloom and cold she read, FOR ELLA. THE SYMBOL AND MEMORIAL. I place the semblance of a Wayside Cross, Here let this stand, and shed its warnings wide. The sacred truths for which they dared to dieIn memory of the poet-souls that lie In the poor potter's field for strangers bought; Here let it stand, a hallowed monument, Most meet, o'er the great hopes entomed beneathAnd if it speaks to only you and I Of more than beauty, have we vainly bleat "A rare ibrary I have," said the boy, with bitter accent-" yet I have made use of no poetic license in speaking of my shelves of books -I have just two shelves, and there are at least a dozen books in each." "I know of some men who have great libraries, and they might be glad to know as much as you do about books," said the girl, soothingly. never mind, you'll write more books than you own, one of these days." "Oh, Ella, you speak like a child—you are a child indeed," he repeated, surveying her as if he had not thought of such a thing before. "I shall never, never write a book, I have got another life marked out for me." "Who says so? who put such a thing into your head?" she asked, quickly. "Why, you write now-you write verses and prose-so you are an author already." "I wish to God I were!" "You are, you are, I tell you." "I have a mother-I am to be a preacher !" the words were almost hissed forth-but having uttered them, he seemed immediately to regain tranquillity. "Do you remember the day when we two had a pic-nic here, and gathered moss from the rocks, and made those crosses?" he said, tenderly. "Why, yes," she answered, with evident surprise" to be sure I remember-it was only last week. What a lovely day it was-and what a beautiful cross that was you shaped for me. I look at it every day—I believe it will never fade." "It can not fade. . . You spoke of my writing books... what should I write them for?" "Money and Fame-what all authors write for." 66 Oh, what a mistake! not all! Sit down here, Ella. There's a good girl. Don't you know there are some persons who don't write for money, and who don't care for fame? Some who write because they must, who'd go crazy outright, if they didn't, but who would just as soon dig a hole in the ground, and throw what they write in there, or make a burial place of this sea, as they'd have their writings printed! The write to satisfy their own great spirits, not to please others." "No, I never heard of such a thing, and I don't believe it either. You are talking in fun, to hear yourself-or to get me into a dispute with you-nothing pleases you better." The boy looked up, his eyes met those of the girl beside him-they smiled on each other. What children they were. How strangely forgetful of the gulf that lay between them! 'See, Ella, I have finished my work' It was getting very cold and cheerless there on the sea-side, and she shivered as she turned to look at the completed work, whose progress she had shrunk from watching. "What did you call it? Oh, I remember, that is the anchor. But there's another mark below it, an old one too," she said, bending lower, that she might see it more distinctly. You never told me about this-what is it ?" "Shall I make an ANCHOR on your arm?" The girl drew back. "You are afraid it will hurt you," he said, half in scorn. She looked on his arm where the blood was mingling with the ink. "No," she said, resolutely, "I'm not afraid it will hurt me, but the mark, will it not last always?" "To be sure it will. Oh! you will be a beauty-you will shine in ball-rooms with those fair white arms uncovered! Such stuff as this would deface them!" "No such thing! you like to tease me, and that's the reason you talk so. How wild you are! I'm not at all afraid of the pain-nor of marring my beauty. You know, in the first place, I have no beauty, and I don't want any either." "Tut-but I'm not going to flatter you. Do you really want to know what this other mark here is?" "Yes." "It's a cross, Ella." "A cross, George? What's the reason you wear it there?" "Why do you wear that gold thing attached to the gold chain hung around your neck? That is a cross too." "This? Oh, mamma gave it to me." "What good does it do you? Do you say your prayers over it?" "No-I think it very pretty-I wear it for mamma's sake." The boy folded his arms, and turning half away from her said, scornfully, as if to himself: "She wears it proudly, for it shines With costly gems, a radiant thing' - As he finished the recitation, or improvisation, whichever it might be, the youth quietly turned toward the maiden, lifted the slight chain which secured the ornament over her head, and glan cing at the "bauble" contemptuously, flung it far into the water. She was so astonished that, though his move ment was comprehended, she made no attempt | to stay his purpose-her eyes followed his hand, and the bright golden cross as it flashed on the waves and disappeared-then she turned away, without speaking, as if to leave him. 'Stay!" he said, and she stopped short"come and sit down here beside me," but she looked at him as though she did not hear. "It vexes me," he said, in an apologetic, conciliatory way, "it vexes me to see every holy, sacred thing made vain, by vain unmeaning people. What business has any one to wear a golden cross? Had you worn one of lead or iron, I would not have thrown it into the sea. I wish you would wait a few minutes-don't go! I want to tell you about this cross on my arm. You asked me about it. To me it means ENDURE. Ella, you can't guess how much it means; because it isn't possible for you ever to look into the future as I do. You can't imagine what I see before me. I don't know as I should have thought of engraving an anchor here, under this cross, but when I came down to the beach tonight I was very desperate-I saw you standing up here on this rock, the sunlight was shining on your hair and face, the breeze making sport with your shawl and dress, and you looked to me just like Hope, standing so firm on the rock, looking up so calmly into heaven. Oh, Ella, you can't guess what quiet the sight of you sent into my soul. If you had been an angel, and had stood repeating the words of Jesus as He walked on the waters, I could not have heard you say Peace more distinctly.. One has no right to hope, who can not endure. I don't like to see such awful realities as the cross turned into vain symbols, that's the truth about it. But I want you to forgive me for throwing your cross into the sea, I only wish I could tear every cross from you as easily, as you go through life. I couldn't bear to think that you would very soon, let me see, you are fifteen years old! go among gay people wearing that thing, forgetful of its meaning. Will you forgive me?" The "Yes" she said was more than a half sob-but as if ashamed of the emotion she could not conceal, Ella gave the boy her hand, with a frankness that conveyed all the pardon he wanted. "Will you let me mark the anchor on your arm then, Ella?" "No, but you may do the cross." She sat down beside him again, and he traced on her tender arm, with the fine point of the needle, a symbol and a badge. "And you will not have the Hope?" "That is in my heart." "In truth it is the safest place for it. Your arm might have to be amputated some day, but your heart, I know, will never die while you live." "Can the heart die?" "Yes, it can be killed-it can die of disease, of cold, of fever, a thousand things can destroy it-just as the body is destroyed." 66 "Yes, Ella-for he would be sure to do away these cursed distinctions we know so much of! Then I should have no need for feeling as I do, when I shut your gate after you, and go on to the shed where the shoemaker's widow lives with her son, whom people are so very kind, so exceeding kind, as to call a poet. Ella, neither you nor I will live to see it-but the old things SHALL pass away on this earth, and new powers reign here ere long. And then, in that blessed day when Justice shall rule, a girl like you may walk up this village street with a boy even like me, and take his arm, and speak with him as an equal, and none shall stare and think the condescension wonderful. As it is-walk alone-go on before me-though you are weary and cold, I am not fit to support or to shelter you." He opened the gate for her, for they stood now before the parsonage as she passed through he said, more gently, "I am sorry that I threw your cross away; it was a violent, and passionate, and childish act. Besides, you prized it-for your mother's sake; you love your mother. And no good will ever come of its being torn away from you. There was no cause for treating you so." "Yes, there was, George-don't mind-good has come of it already." Oh, Ella-how?" 66 Good-night, George." Good-night, Ella." George, you don't believe I feel as you say people do about being seen walking or talkingwith-you? I am, indeed, very proud of you, and-" "Yes-I don't doubt it, since you say soyou're proud of me, though I can't see why. But you're not proud for me, nor with me." "Yes I am." "No! no! you don't understand what you're talking about. I'm glad you don't--if I called 'the whole world a cheat, and all men liars,' you wouldn't say yea and amen to that?" "No; for I could prove to you that you mistook all about you. Oh, if you only knew how-" "No more-good-night. You are not like other people, Ella, or we could not speak as we do together." II. A dull November morning-rain had fallen in 'Don't you keep your hope in your heart great quantities during the night, as George Waldron had predicted, and clouds vet covered |