“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. Never were such distortions as Mr. Tupman’s frame underwent in his efforts to appear easy and graceful⁠—never was such ingenious posturing, as his fancy-dressed friends exhibited.