Sir Lumley St. George Skeffington was the dandy of the olden time, and a
kinder, better-hearted man, never existed. He is a person of some taste
in literature, and of polished manners, nor has his long intercourse
with fashionable society at all affected that simplicity of character
for which he has been remarkable. He was a true dandy: and much more
than, that, he was a perfect gentleman. I remember, long long since,
entering Covent Garden Theatre, when I observed a person holding the
door to let me pass; deeming him to be one of the box-keepers, I was
about to nod my thanks: when I found, to my surprise, that it was
Skeffington, who had thus goodnaturedly honoured a stranger by his
attention. We with some difficulty obtained seats in a box, and I was
indebted to accident for one of the most agreeable evenings I remember
to have passed.

I remember visiting the Opera, when late dinners were the rage, and the
hour of refection was carried far into the night. I was again placed
near the fugleman of fashion (for to his movements were all eyes
directed: and his sanction determined the accuracy of all conduct). He
bowed from box to box, until recognising one of his friends in the lower
tier, "Temple," he exclaimed, drawling out his weary words,
"at--what--hour--do--you--dine--to-day?" It had gone half-past eleven
when he spoke!

I saw him once enter St. James's Church, having at the door taken a
ponderous red-morocco prayer-book from his servant; but, although
prominently placed in the centre aisle, the pew-opener never offered him
a seat; and, stranger still, none of his many friends beckoned him to a
place. Others, in his rank of life, might have been disconcerted at the
position in which he was placed: but Skeffington was too much of a