Augustus Horne was called by all, and called himself, a happy
man. His stature was about six feet two, and his corpulence
exceeded even those bounds which symmetry would have preferred as
being most perfectly compatible even with such a height. But
nevertheless Mr. Horne was a well-made man; his hands and feet were
small; his face was handsome, frank, and full of expression; his
bright eyes twinkled with humour; his finely-cut mouth disclosed two
marvellous rows of well-preserved ivory; and his slightly aquiline
nose was just such a projection as one would wish to see on the face
of a well-fed good-natured dignitary of the Church of England. When
I add to all this that the reverend gentleman was as generous as he
was rich--and the kind mother in whose arms he had been nurtured had
taken care that he should never want--I need hardly say that I was
blessed with a very pleasant travelling companion.
I must mention one more interesting particular. Mr. Horne was rather
inclined to dandyism, in an innocent way. His clerical starched
neckcloth was always of the whitest, his cambric handkerchief of the
finest, his bands adorned with the broadest border; his sable suit
never degenerated to a rusty brown; it not only gave on all
occasions glossy evidence of freshness, but also of the talent which
the artisan had displayed in turning out a well-dressed clergyman of
the Church of England.
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