liberal and kindly patron, the landgrave of
Hesse Cassel, who attached him to his court,
encouraged him, and developed rapidly his
talent. Further to assist in his development
he placed in the young painter's hands a
considerable sum of money, and bade him go and
become perfect in his art by studying in Italy.

One day when Philip, then aged about
thirty, was in the Campagna of Rome, sketching
from nature, there drove by an elegant
carriage in which was a prosperous old
gentleman, with white hairs, a painter who
enjoyed great fame and a thriving business,
Hyacinth Brandi. The old gentleman stopped
his horses and alighted to examine Philip's
canvass. That was the first meeting of the
Hyacinth with the Rose. Great masters of
painting in those days in Rome and Florence
habitually spoke to the pupils whom they
found sketching about the country, assumed
a sociable paternal tone, corrected errors,
gave advice, even made alterations on the
canvass, and sometimes presented aid in
money to such students as were poor. Italy
was a studio in which the painters lived
together upon terms that became men who
were of one liberal profession, members as it
were of the same household. Hyacinth
Brandi liked Roos's goats so much, and was
so much surprised at his rapidity of touch,
that as he wanted somebody to paint good
animals into some pictures of his own, he
hospitably bade the young man to his house.

Philip went willingly. Brandi had commissions
by the dozen on his hands, and he
had also a charming daughter. Of the charming
daughter, and Italian beauty, Philip had
a passing glimpse on his first visit, and for
her sake when he went up to Brandi's painting
room he so recklessly praised everything
that he saw as to obtain at once free invitation
to the old man's intimacy. He took
pains to find out in the course of a few days
that Hyacinth's daughter inhabited a wing
of the house abutting on an inner garden.
One day, therefore, calling when Hyacinth
was busy, he said that he would wait his
leisure in the garden; and having marched
thither, lay under a tree to look out for the
windows of the lady. When he had found
out which they were, he stationed himself
under them, and as soon as Miss Brandi
appeared at her casement made her a
courteous bow. She was surprised; but, as she
saw that it was a handsome young man who
bowed, she smiled as she shut the window
and departed. From that point the Rose
proceeded in due time to conversations and
to the winning of the lady's heart. She had
agreed to marry him. A cruel father then
discovered these proceedings, forbad Philip
admission to his house, and shut up his
daughter in a nunnery. In his anger he
repeated twenty times a day that "she was
not reared for a painter of beasts."

Philip Roos was a German and a Protestant,
but as he was not at all particular about his
religion, it occurred to him that he could do
nothing better than renounce his errors, and
throwing himself upon the bosom of the
Church, Miss Brandi's mother, ask of the
mother what the father had denied him—the
young lady's hand in marriage. He went
therefore one morning to the house of the
cardinal-vicar, and represented himself as a man
awakened to a sense of his own heresy; the
prelate was charmed, and, claiming him for
his own convert, gave him instruction and
enjoyed the honour of presenting him as his
own gift to the holy Church. Then the painter
told the cardinal the story of his love, and
asked for help. On the day following, the
cardinal called on the Pope, the Pope asked who
was the father of the young lady.

"Brandi the painter."

"Very well," he said, "then they are both
painters. There is no disparity of condition;
I can see no obstacle."

Hyacinth was sent for to the Vatican; it
was no matter to the Pope whether Roos
painted men or beasts or stones, the young
convert deserved his reward, and Brandi,
compelled to restrain his pride, gave up his
daughter.

On the day after the wedding, Philip Roos
sent back to the old man all the girl's clothes,
even to her shoes and stockings, saying that
the painter of beasts wanted none of his
frippery, and that her beauty was his wife's
sufficient ornament. Brandi, who was a
very rich man, thereupon disinherited his
daughter, and left her entirely to her husband's
care.

He had taken her to a strange dwelling near
Tivoli, at some distance from Rome. The
house was formed out of the ruins of an
ancient monument, and was situated in a
sort of zoological garden that was full of birds,
and beasts instead of flowers. Inside and
outside it was peopled with pet rats and mice,
dogs and cats, oxen and asses, goats, vultures,
owls, and other such company. These were
the painter's models that he kept about him,
and it was no pleasant discovery for the poor
wife to make during her honeymoon, when it
appeared that her husband was not a whit less
brutal than his oxen and his goats. He never
stayed long with her, for he was a cheery
fellow who had both his business and his
tavern friends at Rome. The beautiful young
wife soon found herself left by the week
together in the old ruin, which was much
more picturesque than comfortable, bewildered
by the incessant concert made out of the
crowing of cocks, clucking of hens, grunting of
pigs, barking of dogs, miauing of cats, bleating
of goats, screeching of owls, lowing of oxen, all
occasionally enriched by the fine tenor notes
of the ass, who had the best voice in the
company; Weyerman says that any
traveller coming upon the young Roman girl,
living there all alone with such companions,
might have taken her for a Circe surrounded
by the victims of her enchantment. The