You tell me your father smiles, and refers you “to Rachel’s pen” for all that relates to Sir Murdock Maclairn’s first interview in town; “_he_ (Mr. Hardcastle) being too jealous of the baronet’s favour with me, to be impartial.” In reply to Mr. Hardcastle I make him one of my best and most saucy curtesies; and tell him that I understand perfectly the cause of his _discretion_ and _humility_. He is like many other sinners, willing to compromise matters with conscience, and to tempt others to do that which he dare not do himself, in order to share the gratification of wickedness at a less price. How often have we seen him check his mirth and spoil a good story, by saying, “this is folly, neither the weaknesses nor the frailties of our fellow-creatures, my children, are proper subjects for mirth:” and yet he can lay a snare for me. However, I have neither his charity nor benevolent toleration, and think folly fair game. But I have not folly to laugh at, in the subject before me; yet, Lucy, in the dearth of all rational amusement, in a separation from all whom I love, do you think I can want an excuse for my pen, should it offend charity? Self-preservation is a duty no less obligatory than self-government; and as I am cut off from the banquet of wisdom, have I not a right to cater for myself? “Certainly:” and if I can live upon worse fare, and can be contented with what is wholesome, though not delicate, will any one blame me? “No:” well then, this privilege being granted, please to understand, that neither my compassion nor good nature are yet starved out; for were that the case, Sir Murdock Maclairn would be the most unsuitable dish for the cravings of my hunger. It is, however, most assuredly true, that this gentleman’s first appearance produced on me not only surprise, but the most powerful incitements to be _wicked_. Figure to yourself a very tall large-boned man, meagre as “pining atrophy;” high cheek-bones, which still more hollowed his sunk features; a complexion jaundiced by sickness and tinged by Scotch snuff, which he takes in immoderate quantities; a long crane neck, which is tightly bound with a narrow black stock; a few scattered hairs, which still maintain their carroty colour, tyed in a queue; a sunk, though broad chest, and a plaintive voice, in which however are cadences to please the ear whilst attending to an articulation slow, and sometimes laboured. Add to this picture, an abstracted manner, and an air of sadness; and you will not be astonished that I should for a few minutes fancy Malvolio present, and that I looked for “his yellow stockings and cross garters.” The eagerness with which he gazed upon me strengthened my imagination, and I did not dare to smile, lest I should hear him say— “Thou canst not chuse but know who I am: If thou entertainest my love, let it appear by thy smiling.—— Thy smiles become thee well.”