In his leisure hours he wrote moderately well-expressed papers on all sorts of social subjects with a pithy raciness and command of language that excited a good deal of comment.
Herrick was a clever fellow, people said; "he would make his mark when he was older, and had got rid of his cranks;" but all the same he was not understood by the youth of his generation.

"The Fossil," as they called him at Lincoln, was hardly modern enough for their taste; he was a survival of the mediaeval age--he took life too gravely, and gave himself the airs of a patriarch.
In person he was a thin spare man, somewhat sallow, and with dark melancholy eyes that were full of intelligence.

When he smiled, which he did more rarely than most people, he looked at least ten years younger.
In reality he was nearly thirty, but he never measured his age by years.

"I have not had my innings yet," he would say; "I am going to renew my youth presently; I mean to have my harvest of good things like other fellows, and eat, drink, and be merry;" but from all appearance the time had not come yet.
Malcolm Herrick's chambers were in Lincoln's Inn.

Thither he was turning his footsteps one sultry July afternoon, when as usual he paused at a certain point, while a smile of pleasure stole to his lips.
Familiarity had not yet dulled the edge of his enjoyment; now, as ever, it soothed and tranquillised him to turn from the noisy crowded streets into this quiet spot with its gray old buildings, its patch of grass, and the broad wide steps up and down which men, hurrying silently, passed and repassed intent on the day's work.
As usual at this hour, the flagged court was crowded by pigeons, strutting fearlessly between the feet of the passers-by, and filling the air with their soft cooing voices.
"Ah, my friend the cobbler," he said to himself, and he moved a little nearer to watch the pretty sight.