closely to the sides of his face, and the other lies at right angles
above them. He wears no whiskers, and is always punctiliously shaven.
His face is nearly of the same colour as his hair, though perhaps a
little redder: it is not unlike beef--beef, however, one would say,
of a bad quality. His forehead is capacious and high, but square and
heavy and unpleasantly shining. His mouth is large, though his lips
are thin and bloodless; and his big, prominent, pale-brown eyes
inspire anything but confidence. His nose, however, is his redeeming
feature: it is pronounced, straight and well-formed; though I myself
should have liked it better did it not possess a somewhat spongy,
porous appearance, as though it had been cleverly formed out of a
red-coloured cork.

I never could endure to shake hands with Mr. Slope. A cold, clammy
perspiration always exudes from him, the small drops are ever to be
seen standing on his brow, and his friendly grasp is unpleasant.

Such is Mr. Slope--such is the man who has suddenly fallen into
the midst of Barchester Close, and is destined there to assume the
station which has heretofore been filled by the son of the late
bishop. Think, oh, my meditative reader, what an associate we have
here for those comfortable prebendaries, those gentlemanlike clerical
doctors, those happy, well-used, well-fed minor canons who have grown
into existence at Barchester under the kindly wings of Bishop
Grantly!

But not as a mere associate for these does Mr. Slope travel down to
Barchester with the bishop and his wife. He intends to be, if not
their master, at least the chief among them. He intends to lead
and to have followers; he intends to hold the purse-strings of the