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"But you will have to get something after you sue."

"Yes, I shall."

tlemen already arrived. I had a brief interview with Mr. Durand, whom I found fully equal to the plan I proposed acting on; and when Mr. Halliday called, he was shown into the small "I hope you may find it!" and a brutal laugh room by another door, while I retired into the indicated the entire confidence which he had that front sitting-room. The absorbing nature of his his property was effectually concealed from the plan must have prevented the broker, on the pre-most searching sheriff's deputy He again atvious evening, from knowing that he could be tempted to go out, and I again stopped him. overheard; for every word he uttered was as "Frankly then, sir, I tell you that you are liaplainly heard in our room as where he sat. He ble to arrest on this suit, and your person will was in great haste to finish his business, and re- be made responsible for the recovery. I have gretted if his old friend had suffered for want of already a sufficient amount of information to asthe small sum he now brought, with the interest sure me that I shall not throw away time in purfor ten years. It was altogether something like suing you. You have your choice. Proceed two thousand dollars, being the balance of mon- with me to such place as you may name, now, eys realized from the sale of the lands and se- without delay, and pay over to me the entire valcurities which he had received from Mr. Durandue of the property you misappropriated, or abide wherewith to pay debts. The amount being bare- the consequences of the refusal. I am ready to ly sufficient to cover his own debt, he had thought go with you." it best to return the small balance, rather than pay it away on any large claim.. Mr. Durand questioned him in a general way, and when Halliday expressed his haste there was a moment's silence, as if the old man were counting over his own old promissory notes and the money, or looking over the memoranda of sales that Halliday submitted to him. The latter then spoke :

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"By-the-by, you may as well give me a little memorandum of this, and I will give you a full receipt for all claims. I will write it: I see you are too feeble. This scrap of paper will answer. No, no-don't trouble yourself about ink: my pencil will do. Something of this sort: Received of S. Halliday, two thousand one hundred and three, seventy-five one hundredths dollars, in full of his account as trustee for me in the sale of my lands and stocks, and payment of my debts, in the year the same being balance in my favor, after paying his demands against me, and this being a full discharge therefor.' There, just sign that. Perhaps I had better ask your daughter to step in and witness it."

"Let us see first that it is all right, Mr. Halliday," said I, walking into the room, and taking the pencil memorandum from old Mr. Durand's hands.

Halliday started to his feet. He was keen enough to see the trap into which he had fallen, and he turned fiercely to the old man and uttered one furious oath, and then turned to the door. I stopped him with my hand on his shoulder. "One moment, sir, if you please."

"Who are you, sir?"

"Just at present that does not matter much. You doubtless perceive the position in which you stand. Mr. Durand has abundant proof that you were but his trustee in these affairs; that his conveyance to you was for the purpose of paying his debts. It is not a difficult matter to show that the property was worth ten times what you have here represented. I suppose you are aware that Mr. Durand can recover from you the entire value of the property."

"Perhaps you will sue?" Perhaps I will."

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Go to the devil!" said he, with another brutal laugh, and he stalked out of the door and into the street. I hastened to the front window, but not soon enough to see the transaction which occurred as he left the door-step. As he set foot on the pavement, a deputy sheriff laid his hand on his shoulder. "You are wanted," said he.

Halliday furiously demanded who he was. The accomplished officer muttered his reply: "Durand versus Halliday. Warrant against Halliday: go with me, down to the Park. Bail to-morrow."

Halliday saw that he was caught; but in an instant he threw his foot out, and gave the deputy a side blow that might have felled an ox; but he was an old hand, and knew that trip too well. He stood firm, and with a blow that seemed like a mere pat of his hand, but which was evidently the stunning force of the slung shot, he laid Halliday on the pavement, with the blood streaming from his face. All this had passed before we reached the window, and I saw him beckon to a hackman, who assisted him in lifting his capture into the carriage, and they drove off, while I turned back to the bedside of Mr. Durand.

The excitement of the whole scene had been too great for him, and I was startled at the paleness which had come over his features.

His eyes wandered painfully around the little room, and when we all gathered around his bed it was manifest that death was rapidly approaching.

There is something sublime and stately in the approach of a good old man to the world of spir

its. The journey of life ended, the labor of life over, the sorrows of life assuaged; the doubts, fears, and difficulties of life about to be solved: there is something majestic in the tread of the old man as he solemnly approaches the unseen, and takes his leave of us, who remain to know the same trials from which he has gone. The death-bed of Mr. Durand had none of the accessories of luxurious splendor to rob death of its simple sublimity. There were no carved ceilings, no rich tapestries, no shaded lights, no heavy curtains. He lay on a low couch, his head supported on a pillow that was scarcely

whiter than his cheek, and the little room was | your violence this evening has already been terlit by the single lamp that stood on the stand, rible, and it is not probable that Mr. Durand will surrounded by notes and bills which Halliday in live until morning." his haste had left lying there. It was a strange contrast, that heap of money and that dying old man. He turned his feeble eyes at length toward his wife, and seemed to be endeavoring to recall some old memory. Then he smiled, and spoke to her, in a voice that was strangely musical and soft:

"I was thinking of an old house, up in the country, and two large trees, and a seat between them a bench, reaching from tree to tree. Ah, Mary! it was there I loved you first, long years ago. It was there I asked you to be my wife. Strange that it should come across me so vividly at this moment. Do you remember it, dear wife?"

"Right well, John! and the old well, and the creaking pole, and the gate at the foot of the garden, where we parted in the evenings."

"My wife, I have thought that I should like to be buried in the old graveyard by my father, if you will be buried there too. What do you think of it?"

"Let us not speak of it now, John."

"Yes, we must; for I am not long for this world. The end is coming. I have lived long enough, but not well enough; and I am going

now."

"Oh no, my husband. You are but weary: let us leave you now to sleep."

"No, Mary: the next sleep will be forever. I am growing cold. I see the earth passing away. Human love seems to be failing me, and even your love, Mary, that has been so faithful for nearly fourscore years, is not strong enough to hold me near you. God keep you, my wife, and my darling little child!"

By this time all of us were convinced that a change was coming over the old man; and though under ordinary circumstances we should have retired, yet a death-bed seems to be a place which even strangers have a right to approach, and from which no man may be barred who chooses to stand and look on the parting of the earthly and the immortal. Only Mr. Harrison, after waiting a few moments, excused himself, and left the house; while Leggett remained, and with most assiduous care endeavored to recall the wandering mind of the dying old man.

For nearly an hour we observed little change, and I began to think I might as well leave him, when a sudden noise at the door announced a visitor. At this late hour of night it was certainly surprising; and as the family were all occupied around the old man's couch, I went to the door, which a servant had opened, and saw with astonishment Stephen Halliday, in company with the officer who had arrested him.

"Let me see John Durand," said Halliday, in a quick, stern voice; but instantly changing his tone to one of abject entreaty, he begged me to permit him to see his old friend one moment alone.

"It is impossible, Mr. Halliday. The effect of

"Then I must see him. For Heaven's sake, I beg you let me see him. Dying! dying! It will be my destruction. I must have one word with him-let me pass, sir."

I winked to the officer, who laid his hand on Halliday's shoulder. The man seemed to be positively crazed, but shrank from that touch as from the sting of a scorpion. At the same instant I heard Mr. Durand say, "That Mr. Halliday? Let me see him."

"There! he calls me. Let me pass. He wishes to see me. Did you not hear him?"

It was not unusual for a man under arrest to be exceedingly anxious for an interview with the plaintiff at whose suit he was incarcerated; but this would not account for the insane conduct of this man, and I followed him into the room with some degree of curiosity.

"Ah! Stephen Halliday, I am glad to see you too once more before I die. Look at me well. Look at this room-this bed-this floor without a carpet-this thin covering for my cold old limbs. You have done all this. But I forgive you. I remember my old home, and I forgive you. I remember my wealth, and I forgive you. I remember my children, and I forgive you."

"But I want more than forgiveness, Durand : I want liberty. Release me from this scoundrel's hands."

"I have a word to say about that, Mr. Halliday. Mr. Durand's duty to his wife and child utterly forbid his releasing you."

"But I must leave for Philadelphia in the morning. It is absolutely necessary that I be in Philadelphia by the next day."

"I am perfectly aware of all that, sir; but I have taken the liberty to write to Philadelphia, stating why you are not there."

"But the negotiations will fall through."
"Doubtless."

"And my character will be ruined, so that it will be utterly impossible to renew them." "Just so."

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You are an infernal wretch to place me in such a position as this, sir. By Heaven I will make you suffer for it, if —”

“Mr. Halliday,” said I, taking him by the arm, "what sort of a wretch is he that has brought that old man to such a position as he is in? Sir, you are a child to threaten a lawyer who has dealt with villains like yourself long enough to know how to manage them. Why, man, but for my suggestion the sheriff would not have had the weapon that so effectually silenced you out yonder an hour ago. Take him back to the prison, Mr. Sheriff, and see you take no bail till I know who they are. This is no place for such as he."

He looked at me with the malignity of a devil at first, but his face suddenly fell, and he began to beg like a child. The old man was silent, and I cool and steady. The scene was evidently fast wearing out the remaining strength of Mr. Du

rand, and it became awfully painful to the wife | which follow the first one already quoted, are and granddaughter, who were anxiously watch- dated within the two weeks next succeeding the ing the feeble spark of life kindling and fading in death of Mr. Durand. The suit was served in his old eyes. I motioned toward the door, and the name of his executrix, and a large amount of the sheriff again laid his hands on the prisoner. property was attached. The mention of the name Then he began to make offers, a thousand, ten of Halliday's clerk led me to examine the Registhousand dollars to be let off that night. I had ter's Office early on the morning after his arrest, learned before obtaining the warrant that he had and I ascertained that the pretended sales of the important reasons for being in Philadelphia; but Durand property had actually been made to this I had no idea they were so important as it was clerk, and by him re-sold to Halliday after a lapse now evident that they were. It appeared after- of some five years. Of course I commenced a ward that he was the secret agent of heavy oper- suit to recover the land itself, guessing at the ators in Europe, in closing certain large trans- fraudulent nature of the clerk's title. Within a actions, which were of a confidential nature, and year I had the satisfaction of placing in the hands which would be utterly exploded if he were known of Miss Durand a large fortune, which Halliday to be under arrest for fraud. His importunity paid over as a compromise; and within a few increased, and my coolness in proportion. At months after that I attended her wedding. length he asked me abruptly what my demand would be to release him that night. My answer was unhesitating.

"Mr. Durand's claim is over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, with interest. Give me fifty thousand dollars in cash, and you are free to go where you please. I will look after the balance as the suit progresses."

"But you demand an impossibility. Where can I get the money you wish at this hour?"

"Your check was good at the close of banking hours to-day for something over fifty thousand in the New York bank. I will take your check." "You seem well informed on the subject."

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Thoroughly. I have no fear whatever of losing a farthing of the amount which Mr. Durand claims."

He thought for a moment, looked furiously into my face, and then said fiercely: "Give me pen and ink!" I led him to the other room, and he drew a check for the amount I demanded; and at a word from me the deputy-sheriff bowed to his prisoner and walked out of the door. Halliday turned to me, and, with a look of intense anger, opened his lips as if to speak, but before the first of the volley of curses which he was ready to discharge was uttered, a cry of distress from the other room startled us, and we advanced to the door together.

The good old man was dead. He lay in precisely the same attitude in which we had left him. His eyes had continued to wander about the room for a few moments, and then he had closed them as if to sleep. They remained silent, but the granddaughter, who was intently watching his countenance, observed a shadow pass over it, and then a gleam of light, as if the radiance of the other world had for a moment flashed on it, and then a calm and stedfast smile, which was so heavenly and holy that she sprang toward him, and bent over him; but his breath had ceased, and she knew that he was no longer one of the toiling people of a weary world.

Stephen Halliday gazed at the face of the dead old man with a long, anxious, painful gaze. For a while it seemed as if repentance had come at this late hour, but he turned abruptly away and left the house.

I find that the next few entries in my register

THE CANKERED ROSE OF TIVOLI.

ALLANDALE and other places are 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 odor, strongly impregnated with the fumes of wine, is of a dark brown color, 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, naturalized 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 ante-chamber of a prince." Sometimes 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 liberal and kindly patron, the landgrave of Hesse Cassel, who at tached 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 Champagna 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 canvas. 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 canvas, and sometimes presented aid in money to such stu

dents as were poor. Italy was a studio in which the painters lived together upon terms that became men who were of one liberal professionmembers, 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 every thing 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, forbade 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 honor 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, | the size usually employed for the sketching of a oven to her shoes and stockings, saying that the head-a tela di testa-was laid upon the easel to painter of beasts wanted none of his frippery, be filled. The gentlemen sat down to their cards, 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.

and Roos began to paint. Before the game was over he informed them that his work was done. He had covered the canvas with a shepherd and two or three sheep and goats placed in the middle of a landscape. The General paid his lost bet, of which some of the gold pieces went into the hands of the artist, who, within a few hours, managed to transfer them to the pocket of a tavern-keeper.

The same painter once having aspired to execute a grand piece, took a canvas forty feet square. In sixteen days he filled it, having put upon it in that time six hundred figures of animals. In the foreground were horses and oxen of the size of life: others were in the distance, and they were all so well designed and grouped, and placed in so complete a landscape, that nothing but the united testimony of many people would induce belief that he had not spent many months in the production of the piece; for, notwithstanding his rapidity, his work was good: of course his best pictures were those that he composed with care and much deliberation, but in his most rapid

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, cluck-painting he was always accurate in outline, ing of hens, grunting of pigs, barking of dogs, mewing 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 traveler 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 creatures seemed to be all besieging her with cries for restoration to their pristine shapes. Poor girl, the only victim to her charms was herself.

Roos and his servant used to quit her, and set out for Rome, where the master spent rollicking days in taverns, and when money failed dashed off a picture, which the man sold to the first purchaser who would give for it enough to keep the merry game alive. His pictures were in this way made so cheap that they lost all respectability, and formed but a poor source of subsistence to their author. Yet his genius had no rival then upon the spot, and he might have easily become a wealthy man.

The society of painters from the Netherlands at Rome-a society that called itself the Bentstyled Roos Mercury for his rapidity, a quality in which he was equaled by no artist of his time Count Martenitz, an Austrian embassador, and General Roos, a Swede, famous for dueling propensities, once disputed on the subject of the speed of hand that characterized Philip Roos the painter. The Count betted a number of gold pieces that Philip would begin and complete a picture while they played a certain game of cards, that usually occupied about thirty minutes; as we might now say, while they played a rubber. The bet was taken, and the painter readily enough submitted to the trial. Easel and brushes were brought into the drawing-room, and a canvas of

harmonious in color, and above all remarkable for skill in grouping, and for the variety of effect that he had at his command. His backgrounds were all different. He never repeated himself, and he drew animals of any kind, not being addicted specially to dogs or cows or goats or sheep.

These were the talents that he wasted. They scarcely paid his tavern bills, and ill maintained his wife. That ill-fated woman lived as she could, hungrily at Tivoli, not only wanting proper maintenance herself, but unable to provide properly for the animals that constantly distracted her with hungry cries. When her husband came to her sometimes for a few days, and brought with him a very little money, he was deaf to all her pleadings. Then she fell into a melancholy silence, and he found her dull, so that he traveled back the sooner to his jolly company.

The painter's servant took advantage of his master's folly. That shrewd follower had saved a little money, and he borrowed more. Then when the Rose of Tivoli got caught in a tavern, he painted a picture whereby to effect his escape, and sent off his man to sell it "to the first dealer he found, who was not too much of a thief;" the man carried it to a room of his own, locked it up, and brought back out of his own money, as if from the dealers, whatever price he supposed would be enough to satisfy his master. way he not only accumulated a great number of Roos's works, but at the same time withheld them from the market, and enhanced their money value. When Roos died he sold off his collection, and acquired a little fortune.

In that

Of Philip, as of his brother Nicolas, it was easy to see at a glance whether he had or had not money in his pocket. His contemporaries have recorded that whenever he had an empty pocket he sneaked along the house-walls with a

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