be so. I have watched her bringing up, and
I believe she is worthy of me. At the same
time—not to deceive you—I believe I am
worthy of her. So, I thank you, on both our
parts, for the goodwill you have shown
towards us; and the best wish I can give the
unmarried part of the present company, is
this: I hope every bachelor may find as
good a wife as I have found. And I hope
every spinster may find as good a husband as
my wife has found."

Shortly after which, oration, as they were
going on a nuptial trip to Lyons, in order
that Mr. Bounderby might take the
opportunity of seeing how the Hands got on in those
parts, and whether they, too, required to be
fed with gold spoons; the happy pair
departed for the railroad. The bride, in passing
down stairs, dressed for her journey,
found Tom waiting for her—flushed, either
with his feelings or the vinous part of the
breakfast.

"What a game girl you are, to be such a
first-rate sister, Loo!" whispered Tom.

She clung to him, as she should have clung
to some far better nature that day, and was
a little shaken in her reserved composure for
the first time.

"Old Bounderby's quite ready," said Tom.
"Time's up. Good bye! I shall be on the
look-out for you, when you come back. I say,
my dear Loo! AN'T it uncommonly jolly
now!"

THE CANKERED ROSE OF TIVOLI.

ALLANDALE and other places are in this
country celebrated for their roses. Who has
not heard of a rose with violet eyes or a lily
breast, or teeth of pearl, or even taper fingers?
In musical botany such flowers are frequently
described; there is no doubt about them. I
speak here of a rose belonging to a sister
art, a rose belonging to the botany of painters.
This flower has a sickly odour strongly
impregnated with the fumes of wine, is of a dark
brown colour, tall, and has a coarse bold
handsomeness of feature. It is not a lovely woman,
but an ugly man: at least a man morally
ugly—Philip Roos—who, being a German or
a Dutchman, settled at Tivoli, and, naturalised
among the people of the sunny south, had
his name converted into soft Italian, and was
and is commonly known as the Rose of Tivoli.
A century or two ago he was a cheery fellow,
and he still lives in his pictures.

The Dutchmen claim him, and may have
him if they like; so at least I should say if I
were a German; for it is so much a worse
thing to be a bad man than it is a good thing
to be a good animal painter, that I should
like better to repudiate than claim a share
in the Roos blood. If he were Dutch by race
he was a German by birth, for he was born
at Frankfort-on-Maine in the year fifteen
hundred and sixty-five. Because his life is a
story I propose to tell it, and without
departure by a hair's breadth from the truth.
Should this meet the eye of any person who
has a humiliating consciousness that he could
never paint a cow fit for posterity to look at,
let such a person be at ease and sit contented
in his easy-chair uncared-for by Europe. For
his large contentment let him read this story
of the Rose of Tivoli.

The old Rose, Henry, Philip's father, was
a painter who had lived at Frankfort and
been very careful of his gains. Miserly fathers
commonly make spendthrift sons. Old Roos
one night being burnt out of his house rushed
back into the flames to save some of his
treasures. He collected what he could, and
took especial care to secure a costly gold-
lipped vase of porcelain. On his way out he
stumbled. The vase dropped from his hand.
The porcelain was broken, but the miser
stooped to gather up the gold. Smoke
covered him, and he did not rise again.  He
died for the gold lips of his vase, as younger
gentlemen are frequently said to have died
for ruby lips on vessels of more precious clay.
That I may not begin my tale too soon, let
me add that Philip Roos of Tivoli had not
only a father, but also a brother, and that he
too was a remarkably odd man. He was not
miserly, he was not cheery, but he was
magnificent. His name was Nicolas, and he
too was a painter. He lived at Frankfort, in
an enormous house, though he was as poor as
any church mouse that inhabits a cathedral.
He had an immense train of miserable
servants—a set of ragged creatures—who moved
to and fro like a large colony of ghosts by
whom the edifice was garrisoned. That was
the state of Nicolas; he had grand furniture
as well as a great mansion; the only vexation
was that he and his people generally wanted
victuals. When he had sold a picture for a
good price and received the money he would
come home snuffing the air. His hungry
servants knew then by the height of his nose
how much he had with him, and there was
instantly a running to and fro with the most
eager preparation for festivity. Fire was
kindled on the cold hearths, lamps were
lighted, the artist's wife wore sumptuous
attire, and Nicolas enjoyed the luxury of
princely pomp until the money was all gone.
His establishment then starved, or lived upon
their credit, and the ghostly garrison of
lacqueys held the fortress against all assaults
from the besieging duns. If the siege became
too hot the painter worked with zeal and
finished a new picture. "The poor creature,"
says Weyerman, "took up and put down his
brush as often as a suitor puts his hat off and
on in the antechamber of a prince." Some-
times when matters went very ill with him
the distracted magnifico ordered all doors to
be shut, and immured himself and his men
alive in the house as in a mausoleum.

The brother of this Nicolas was Philip
Roos—the Rose of Tivoli. In his youth he
had been encouraged and protected by a