“Well, now, I’ve not.  I’ve seen her about three times in my life, and spoken two words to her perhaps twice; and yet I’ll describe her character to you; and if you can say that the description is incorrect, I will permit you to call her your friend.”

“Well, let’s hear the character.”

“It wouldn’t be kind in me, though, to laugh at your friend.”

“Oh, she’s not so especially and particularly my friend that you need mind that.”

“Then you’ll promise not to be angry?”

“Oh no, I won’t be angry.”

“Well, then; she has two passions:  they are for worsted and hymn-books.  She has a moral objection to waltzing.  Theoretically she disapproves of flirtations:  she encourages correspondence between young ladies; always crosses her letters, and never finished one for the last ten years without expressing entire resignation to the will of God,—­as if she couldn’t be resigned without so often saying so.  She speaks to her confidential friends of young men as a very worthless, insignificant race of beings; she is, however, prepared to take the very first that may be unfortunate enough to come in her way; she has no ideas of her own, but is quick enough at borrowing those of other people; she considers herself a profound theologian; dotes on a converted papist, and looks on a Puseyite [46] as something one shade blacker than the devil.  Now isn’t that sufficiently like for a portrait?”

[FOOTNOTE 46:  Puseyite—­a follower of Edward Pusey (1800-1882),
one of three scholars at Oxford who started a
movement critical of the Church of England.  One
of the three, John Henry Newman, converted to
Catholicism, and Pusey and his followers were
accused of advocating Catholic practices.]

“It’s the portrait of a set, I fear, rather than an individual.  I don’t know that it’s particularly like Miss O’Joscelyn, except as to the worsted and hymn-books.”

“What, not as to the waltzing, resignation, and worthless young men?  Come, are they not exactly her traits?  Does she waltz?”

“No, she does not.”

“And haven’t you heard her express a moral objection to it?”

“Well, I believe I have.”

“Did you ever get a letter from her, or see a letter of hers?”

“I don’t remember; yes, I did once, a long time ago.”

“And wasn’t she very resigned in it?”

“Well, I declare I believe she was; and it’s very proper too; people ought to be resigned.”

“Oh, of course.  And now doesn’t she love a convert and hate a Puseyite?”

“All Irish clergyman’s daughters do that.”

“Well, Fanny, you can’t say but that it was a good portrait; and after that, will you pretend to say you call Miss O’Joscelyn your friend?”

“Not my very friend of friends; but, as friends go, she’s as good as most others.”

“And who is the friend of friends, Fanny?”