“You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,” resumed the host, after a short pause, “for I love it dearly, and know no other⁠—the old houses and fields seem like living friends to me; and so does our little church with the ivy, about which, by the by, our excellent friend there made a song when he first came amongst us. Mr. Snodgrass, have you anything in your glass?”

“Plenty, thank you,” replied that gentleman, whose poetic curiosity had been greatly excited by the last observation of his entertainer. “I beg your pardon, but you were talking about the song of the Ivy.”

“You must ask our friend opposite about that,” said the host knowingly, indicating the clergyman by a nod of his head.

“May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?” said Mr. Snodgrass.