And so on:--he possessed all the virtues, and wrote to us every month for money. My dear Jemmy and I determined to go and see him, after he had been at school a quarter; we went, and were shown by Mr. Coddler, one of the meekest, smilingest little men I ever saw, into the bedrooms and eating-rooms (the dromitaries and refractories he called them), which were all as comfortable as comfortable might be. “It is a holiday, today,” said Mr. Coddler; and a holiday it seemed to be. In the dining-room were half a dozen young gentlemen playing at cards (“All tip-top nobility,” observed Mr. Coddler);--in the bedrooms there was only one gent: he was lying on his bed, reading novels and smoking cigars. “Extraordinary genius!” whispered Coddler. “Honorable Tom Fitz-Warter, cousin of Lord Byron's; smokes all day; and has written the SWEETEST poems you can imagine. Genius, my dear madam, you know--genius must have its way.” “Well, UPON my word,” says Jemmy, “if that's genius, I had rather that Master Tuggeridge Coxe Tuggeridge remained a dull fellow.” “Impossible, my dear madam,” said Coddler. “Mr. Tuggeridge Coxe COULDN'T be stupid if he TRIED.” Just then up comes Lord Claude Lollypop, third son of the Marquis of Allycompane. We were introduced instantly: “Lord Claude Lollypop, Mr. and Mrs. Coxe.” The little lord wagged his head, my wife bowed very low, and so did Mr. Coddler; who, as he saw my lord making for the playground, begged him to show us the way.--“Come along,” says my lord; and as he walked before us, whistling, we had leisure to remark the beautiful holes in his jacket, and elsewhere. About twenty young noblemen (and gentlemen) were gathered round a pastry-cook's shop at the end of the green. “That's the grub-shop,” said my lord, “where we young gentlemen wot has money buys our wittles, and them young gentlemen wot has none, goes tick.” Then we passed a poor red-haired usher sitting on a bench alone. “That's Mr. Hicks, the Husher, ma'am,” says my lord. “We keep him, for he's very useful to throw stones at, and he keeps the chaps' coats when there's a fight, or a game at cricket.--Well, Hicks, how's your mother? what's the row now?” “I believe, my lord,” said the usher, very meekly, “there is a pugilistic encounter somewhere on the premises--the Honorable Mr. Mac--”