gallop in safety the morning's stage on his winter tours. And though by no means addicted to physical exercise, he taught himself swimming late in life, and delighted in diving and other caprices of the bath.
'There was nothing of the recluse about him in his public functions, but the man himself was doubtless to be discovered rather in his private apartment, interviewing specialists or indeed any one with a task in hand. He would often be turning the pages of the Book his father had reverenced, and he himself had found a standby in all troubles. The Overland Mail was a perennial joy. I recall that one night Dr. A. and I were driving with him, but as we were leaving the grounds the postilions pulled up on seeing the messenger with the English post. In one minute, before we could beg him to turn back, he was out of the vehicle and disappearing through the shrubs to read his letters in his own room. "Go for your drive," he shouted, and we found ourselves in the road with a carriage and four, and outriders, and our raison d'être suddenly extinguished.'
There is a novel entitled 'The Rose and the Lotus,' written by Bessie, though her name does not appear on the title-page. This book is well worth reading, because the father of the heroine 'Mr. Malcolm' is really Thomason drawn from life. Even the lesser traits and lineaments are all sketched from nature. The reception of the heroine in her father's camp is a counterpart of the actual reception of the authoress by Thomason, as proved by one of her own letters. The portraiture may be likened, not to a finished oil-painting, but to a light water-colour, with faint outline and delicate hues, nevertheless bearing an exquisite resemblance to the original. The tender cherishing
