rtable 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--"

"Oh! COME along," said Lord Lollypop, "come along: this way, ma'am! Go
it, ye cripples!" And my lord pulled my dear Jemmy's gown in the kindest
and most familiar way, she trotting on after him, mightily pleased to
be so taken notice of, and I after her. A little boy went running
across the green. "Who is it, Petitoes?" screams my lord. "Turk and the
barber," pipes Petitoes, and runs to the pastry-cook's like mad. "Turk
and the ba--," laughs out my lord, looking at us. "HURRA! THIS way,
ma'am!" And turning round a corner, he opened