, and being sold from them, and playing many pranks
and games with Nymphs and Graces.

Then Canova was done, and Possagno was finished; and we resumed our way
to Treviso.

FOOTNOTES:

[101] I read in Mr. Norton's "Notes of Travel and Study in Italy," that
he saw in the Campo Santo, as long ago as 1856, "the chains that marked
the servitude of Pisa, now restored by Florence," and it is of course
possible that our cicerone may have employed one of these chains for the
different historical purpose I have mentioned. It would be a thousand
pities, I think, if a monument of that sort should be limited to the
commemoration of one fact only.

THE MYSTERY OF NATURE.

The works of God are fair for naught,
Unless our eyes, in seeing,
See hidden in the thing the thought
That animates its being.

The outward form is not the whole,
But every part is moulded
To image forth an inward soul
That dimly is unfolded.

The shadow, pictured in the lake
By every tree that trembles,
Is cast for more than just the sake
Of that which it resembles.

The dew falls nightly, not alone
Because the meadows need it,
But on an errand of its own
To human souls that heed it.

The stars are lighted in the skies
Not merely for their shining,
But, like the looks of loving eyes,
Have meanings worth divining.

The waves that moan along the shore,
The winds that sigh in blowing,
Are sent to teach a mystic lore
Which men are wise in knowing.

The clouds around the mountain-peak,
The rivers in their winding,
Have secrets which, to all who seek,
Are precious in the finding.

Thus Nature dwells within our reach,
But, though we stand so near her,
We still interpret half her speech
With ears too dull to hear her.

Whoever, at the coarsest sound,
Still listens for the finest,
Shall hear the noisy world go round
To music the divinest.

Whoever yearns to see aright
Because his heart is tender,
Shall catch a glimpse of heavenly light
In every earthly splendor.

So, since the universe began,
And till it shall be ended,
The soul of Nature, soul of Man,
And soul of God are blended!

A WIFE BY WAGER.

On a sunny afternoon in the middle of August, 1756, a gayly-dressed
young gentleman of evident rank and we