"Was he celebrated for his works and talents?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"He was, sir," replied the grave man, "all Mrs. Leo Hunter's acquaintance are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no other acquaintance."
"It is a very noble ambition," said Mr. Pickwick.
"When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from your lips, sir, she will indeed be proud," said the grave man. "You have a gentleman in your train, who has produced some beautiful little poems, I think, sir."
"My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir. She doats on poetry, sir. She adores it; I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it. She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have met with her 'Ode to an Expiring Frog,' sir."
"I don't think I have," said Mr. Pickwick.
"You astonish me, sir," said Mr. Leo Hunter. "It created an immense sensation. It was signed with an 'L' and eight stars, and appeared originally in a Lady's Magazine. It commenced
'Can I view thee panting, lying
On thy stomach, without sighing;
Can I unmoved see thee dying
On a log,
Expiring frog!'"
"Beautiful!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Fine," said Mr. Leo Hunter, "so simple."
"Very," said Mr. Pickwick.
"The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?"
"If you please," said Mr. Pickwick.
"It runs thus," said the grave man, still more gravely.
'Say, have fiends in shape of boys,
With wild halloo, and brutal noise,
Hunted thee from marshy joys,
With a dog,
Expiring frog!'"
