d courteous in all his habits; attached
to books in a moderate, easy way, but no bookworm; he had a gentle
affection for bindings and title-pages; was fond of pictures, of
which it might be probable that he would some day know more than
he did at present; addicted to Gothic architecture, and already
proprietor of the germ of what was to be a collection of coins.

Owen Fitzgerald had called him a prig; but Herbert was no prig. Nor
yet was he a pedant; which word might, perhaps, more nearly have
expressed his cousin's meaning. He liked little bits of learning,
the easy outsides and tags of classical acquirements, which come so
easily within the scope of the memory when a man has passed some ten
years between a public school and a university. But though he did
love to chew the cud of these morsels of Attic grass which he had
cropped, certainly without any great or sustained effort, he had no
desire to be ostentatious in doing so, or to show off more than he
knew. Indeed, now that he was away from his college friends, he was
rather ashamed of himself than otherwise when scraps of quotations
would break forth from him in his own despite. Looking at his true
character, it was certainly unjust to call him either a prig or a
pedant.

He was fond of the society of ladies, and was a great favourite with
his sisters, who thought that every girl who saw him must instantly
fall in love with him. He was goodnatured, and, as the only son of a
rich man, was generally well provided with money. Such a brother is
usually a favourite with his sisters. He was a great favourite too
with his aunt, whose heart, however, was daily sinking into her shoes
through the effect of one great terror which harassed her respecting
him. She feared that he had become a Puseyite. Now that means much
with some ladies in England; but with most ladies of the Protestant
religion in Ireland, it means, one may almost say, the very Father of
Mischief himself. In their minds, the pope, with his lady of Babylon,
his college of cardinals, and all his community of pinchbeck saints,
holds a sort of second head-quarters of his own at Oxford. And there
his high priest is supposed to be one wicked infamous Pusey, and his
worshippers are wicked infamous Puseyites. Now, Miss Letty Fitzgerald
was strong on this subject, and little inklings had fallen from her
nephew which robbed her of much of her peace of mind.

It is impossible that these volumes should be graced by any