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.