herself in its sunshine.

But Palissy was convinced that he had now discovered the full perfection of the white enamel; and his delight was in proportion to all the toil and struggle the discovery had cost him.  No more any idea, now, of giving over, and returning to his old calling.  Illustrious results must soon follow, he was sure, and from henceforth it was necessary he should work privately, and construct for his own use a furnace like that of the glass-workers.  Already in imagination stretching out his hand to grasp the prize, he eagerly betook himself to moulding vessels of clay, shaped after his own designs, which, covered with the exquisite white enamel he had discovered, he purposed to adorn with lovely paintings.  He saw them doubtless, in his mind’s eye, beautiful, as those he actually produced in after years—those perfect master-pieces of porcelain in relief, and dishes ornamented with figures, beasts, reptiles, insects, beetles, and flowers: treasures of art, full of grace, beauty, and simplicity, which were eagerly purchased by the rich seigneurs of that day, to adorn their cabinets and beautify their châteaux, and which now sell for their weight in gold.

But though his fancy saw them, as his taste, so exquisite and refined, had already designed them, still it was with the rough clay his hands were actually at work, and he had, unfortunately for his present need, “never understood earths.”

Some seven or eight months more were expended in making these vessels, and then he began to erect the furnace.  With incredible difficulty and labour—for he had none to assist him in the work, not even so much as to draw water, and fetch bricks from the kiln—the indefatigable man wrought till he had completed the furnace, and the preliminary baking of his vessels.  And then, instead of reposing after all this toil, by the space of more than a month, he worked, night and day, grinding and compounding the materials of which he had made the white enamel.  At length his task was completed, and the vessels, coated with the mixture, were arranged within the furnace.

Look at him now!—he has kindled his furnace fire, and is feeding it through its two mouths.  He does not spare the fuel; he diligently throws it in, all day; he suffers it not to slacken all night.  Yet the enamel does not melt.  The sun rises, bright and glowing, and Nicole, now a sturdy boy of eleven or twelve years old, brings his father a basin of pottage for breakfast; a poor and scanty meal, ill-fitted to recruit his over-taxed powers, but eagerly devoured by the hungry artisan, who pauses for a few moments in order to swallow it.  How pale and thin and haggard he looks!  What a strained expression does his countenance wear; but all indomitable and calmly hopeful ’mid his toil!

“God bless thee, my child,” he says, as he returns the empty basin to the boy; “learn well thy lesson to-day, and to-morrow, I hope, we may make holiday, and ramble together through the fields as we once used to do.”  “Nay, father, and who will mind the furnace?”  “I trust it will have done its work.  The enamel will surely melt soon.”

But the hours of that day passed on; and the dark night succeeded, and still, amid the blaze and crackle of the furnace, Palissy worked on.  Another day dawns; and still he feeds his fire.  Worn and weary, he occasionally drops asleep for some minutes, but his ever wakeful spirit rouses him almost instantly, and he throws in more wood, again.  In vain.  Six days and six nights has he spent about the glowing furnace, each day more anxious and laborious than the preceding—but the enamel has not melted.  At length, convinced that something is amiss, he ceases from his task.  He sits, with drooping head and lack-lustre eye, gazing on the smouldering fires, which begin slowly to slacken ready to die away.  What will he do next?  In few and heart-stirring words he tells us what: “Seeing it was not possible to make the said enamel melt, I was like a man in desperation; and although quite stupefied with labour, I counselled to myself that in my mixture there might be some fault.  Therefore I began once more to pound and grind more materials, all the time without letting my furnace cool; in this way I had double labour, to pound, grind, and maintain the fire.  I was also forced to go again, and purchase pots, in order to prove the said compound, seeing that I had lost all the vessels which I had made myself.  And having covered the new pieces with the said enamel, I put them into the furnace, keeping the fire still at its height.  But now occurred a new misfortune, which caused me great mortification—namely, that the wood having failed me, I was forced to burn the palings which maintained the boundaries of my garden, which being burnt also, I was forced to burn the tables and the flooring of my house, to cause the melting of the second composition.  I suffered an anguish that I cannot speak, for I was quite exhausted and dried up by the heat of the furnace; it was more than a month since my shirt had been dry upon me.  Further to console me, I was the object of mockery; even those from whom solace was due ran crying through the town that I was burning my floors.  In this way my credit was taken from me, and I was regarded as a madman.”

How grievous those plaintive words—scarcely condemnatory—yet keenly sensitive to desertion on the part of those who should have comforted him in the time of his calamity!  It was a scandal under which he pined away, and with bowed head, slipped through the streets like a man put to shame.  No one gave him consolation in this extremity; on the contrary, men jested at him, saying it was right and just that he who had left off following his trade should die of hunger.  Will he succumb to this new trial?  Hear the brave heart’s resolve—“All these things assailed my ears when I passed through the street; but for all that there remained still some hope which encouraged and sustained me.  So, when I had dwelt with my regrets a little, because there was no one who had pity upon me, I said to my soul; ‘Wherefore art thou saddened, since thou hast found the object of thy search?  Labour now, and the defamers will live to be ashamed.’”

For a few sad days only, Palissy “dwelt with his regrets.”  But “a little while” did he indulge his sorrow.  Scarcely had his physical powers, exhausted by long tension, regained their spring, than he was again in pursuit of his darling object.  Could he but find some friendly hand to aid him a little, all would go well; but where was the good Samaritan to be sought?  Alas! he knew of none.  Pondering sorrowfully over this matter, he one evening chanced to pass by a small inn on the outskirts of the town, and saw sitting on the bench, beside the door, two or three labouring men who had just come from the fields.  One of these was a potter, whom Palissy knew to be a good workman.  The thought immediately came into his mind, could he but engage the services of this man for a few months, it would be the very thing he wanted.  At that instant the host stepped out into the porch, and, seeing Bernard, addressed a few friendly words to him.  They sounded sweet to the thirsty soul that craved for sympathy, and he gladly accepted the landlord’s offer of a refreshing draught, and presently entered into