Scarcely had our surprise time to subside, than we heard the outer door opened by the servant—­then it closed—­then heavy footsteps, one, two, and three, were audible in the lobby—­then the dining-room door was opened; and a form which filled the whole of its ample aperture, from top to bottom, from right to left, made its appearance.  It was the figure of a man, but language would sink under his immensity.  Never in heaven, or earth, or air, or ocean, was such a man seen.  He was hugeness itself—­bulk personified—­the beau ideal of amplitude.  When the dining-room door was first opened, the glare of the well-lighted lobby gleamed in upon us, illuminating our whole apartment with increase of lustre; but no sooner did he set his foot upon the threshold, than the lobby light behind him was shut out.  He filled the whole gorge of the door like an enormous shade.

Onward, clothed in black, came the moving mountain, and a very pleasing monster he was.  A neck like that of a rhinoceros sat piled between his “Atlantean shoulders,” and bore upon its tower-like and sturdy stem, a countenance prepossessing from its good-humour, and amazing for its plumpness and rubicundity.  His cheeks were swollen out into billows of fat—­his eyes overhung with turgid and most majestic lids, and his chin double, triple, ay quadruple.  As for his mouth—­

    “It was enough to win a lady’s heart
    With its bewitching smile.”

Onward came the moving mountain—­shaking the floor beneath his tread, filling a tithe of the room with his bulk, and blackening every object with his portentous shadow.

I was amazed—­I was confounded—­I was horrified.  Not so Julia and her aunt, who, far from participating in my perturbed emotions, got up from their seats, smiled with a welcoming nod, and requested him to sit down.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Tims,” said Julia.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Tims,” said her aunt.

“Mr. Tims!” Gracious heavens, and was this the name of the mighty entrant?  Tims!  Tims!  Tims!—­the thing was impossible.  A man with such a name should be able to go into a nut-shell; and here was one that the womb of a mountain could scarcely contain!  Had he been called Sir Bullion O’Dunder, Sir Theodosius M’Turk, Sir Rugantino Magnificus, Sir Blunderbuss Blarney, or some other high-sounding name, I should have been perfectly satisfied.  But to be called Tims!  Upon my honour, I was shocked to hear it.

Mr. Tims sat him down upon the great elbow-chair, for he was a friend, it seems, of the family—­a weighty one assuredly; but one whose acquaintanceship they were all glad to court.  The ladies, in truth, seemed much taken with his society.  They put fifty questions to him about the play—­the assembly—­the sermon—­marriages—­deaths—­christenings, and what not; the whole of which he answered with surprising volubility.  His tongue was the only active part about him, going as glibly as if he were ten stones, instead of thirty, and as if he were a Tims in person as well as in name.  In a short time I found myself totally neglected.  Julia ceased to eye me, her aunt to address me, so completely were their thoughts occupied with the Man-Mountain.