There were hosts of these geniuses, and any reasonable person would have thought it honour enough to meet them.

But more than these, there were half a dozen lions from London--authors, real authors, who had written whole books, and printed them afterwards--and here you might see 'em, walking about, like ordinary men, smiling, and talking--aye, and talking pretty considerable nonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of rendering themselves intelligible to the common people about them.

Moreover, there was a band of music in pasteboard caps; four something-ean singers in the costume of their country, and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of THEIR country--and very dirty costume too.

And above all, there was Mrs.
Leo Hunter in the character of Minerva, receiving the company, and overflowing with pride and gratification at the notion of having called such distinguished individuals together.
'Mr.Pickwick, ma'am,' said a servant, as that gentleman approached the presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the brigand and troubadour on either arm.
'What! Where!' exclaimed Mrs.Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affected rapture of surprise.
'Here,' said Mr.Pickwick.
'Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr.
Pickwick himself!' ejaculated Mrs.Leo Hunter.
'No other, ma'am,' replied Mr.Pickwick, bowing very low.

'Permit me to introduce my friends--Mr.Tupman--Mr.Winkle--Mr.Snodgrass--to the authoress of "The Expiring Frog."' Very few people but those who have tried it, know what a difficult process it is to bow in green velvet smalls, and a tight jacket, and high-crowned hat; or in blue satin trunks and white silks, or knee-cords and top-boots that were never made for the wearer, and have been fixed upon him without the remotest reference to the comparative dimensions of himself and the suit.