Sir Francis Tyrrell was a learned and a literary man; in person somewhat below the middle size, dark in complexion, with sharp features and overhanging eyebrows, which, at the time I choose for opening this tale, were grizzled with some long gray hairs, which from time to time he industriously pulled out with tweezers, while they, with a pertinacity worthy of him from whom they sprang, regularly grew up again, longer, and grayer, and more prominent than ever. He wrote a good deal at various times, and produced works marked by very superior talents; and he also formed frequent theories, which were by no means always correct, but which all displayed genius of a certain kind, and considerable originality, if not perversity of thought. Of these works and these theories Sir Francis was not a little vain, and this was one of the most irritable points in his character. He could bear to be touched upon almost all other subjects but those; or rather we might say, that though it was not without danger that any one touched him upon any subject, upon these he became quite furious. His family were totally without what the phrenologists call the organ of veneration. They had little respect for anything, and set out with having no respect for themselves. This they concealed in their own case, of course, as far as possible; but this want of respect never failed to make itself manifest both in words and deeds, when it referred to any member of their own family. Thus, Sir Francis was heard to declare that his father was one of the greatest fools that ever lived, and on being asked why, replied, "For marrying my mother." "A man puts a lemon to a bottle of spirits," he said, "and people call him a sensible fellow, and go to drink punch with him; but if a man were to eat a whole lemon, plain people would say he was mad."