l. The man, in
short, reflected the views on this subject which are so admirably
phrased in his books, works that seem to me to found one of their
chief claims to distinction on this, that at last we have a writer who
can treat intimately of human love without leaving one smear of the
onion upon his pages."

On the whole, it may be noticed, comparatively few ladies contribute
to the obituary reflections, "for the simple reason," says a simple
man, "that he went but little into female society. He who could write
so eloquently about women never seemed to know what to say to them.
Ordinary tittle-tattle from them disappointed him. I should say that
to him there was so much of the divine in women that he was depressed
when they hid their wings." This view is supported by Clubman, who
notes that Tommy would never join in the somewhat free talk about the
other sex in which many men indulge. "I remember," he says, "a man's
dinner at which two of those present, both persons of eminence,
started a theory that every man who is blessed or cursed with the
artistic instinct has at some period of his life wanted to marry a
barmaid. Mr. Sandys gave them such a look that they at once
apologized. Trivial, perhaps, but significant. On another occasion I
was in a club smoking-room when the talk was of a similar kind. Mr.
Sandys was not present. A member said, with a laugh, 'I wonder for how
long men can be together without talking gamesomely of women?' Before
any answer could be given Mr. Sandys strolled in, and immediately the
atmosphere cleared, as if someone had opened the windows. When he had
gone the member addressed turned to him who had propounded the problem
and said, 'There is your answer--as long as Sandys is in the room.'"

"A fitting epitaph, this, for Thomas Sandys," says the paper that
quotes it, "if we could not find a better. Mr. Sandys was from first
to last a man of character, but why when others falter was he always
so sure-footed? It is in the answer to this question that we find the
key to the books, and to the man who was greater than the books. He
was the Perfect Lover. As he died seeking flowers for her who had the
high honour to be his wife, so he had always lived. He gave his
affection to her, as our correspondent Miss (or Mrs.) Ailie McLean
shows, in his earliest boyhood, and from this, his one romance, he
never swerved. To the moment of his death all his beautiful thoughts
were flowers plucked for her; his bo