The custodian of the gallery had been Canova's body-servant, and he loved to talk of his master. He had so far imbibed the spirit of family pride that he did not like to allow that Canova had ever been other than rich and grand, and he begged us not to believe the idle stories of his first essays in art. He was delighted with our interest in the imperial Washington, and our pleasure in the whole gallery, which we viewed with the homage due to the man who had rescued the world from Swaggering in sculpture. When we were tired, he invited us, with his mistress's permission, into the house of the Canovas adjoining the gallery; and there we saw many paintings by the sculptor,--pausing longest in a lovely little room decorated, after the Pompeian manner, with _scherzi_ in miniature panels representing the jocose classic usualities,--Cupids escaping from cages, 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.