On the other hand, it would seem that in certain circles and contingencies the “grand old name of Gentleman” is regarded as a term of opprobrium.  The late Lord Wriothesley Russell, who was for many years a Canon of Windsor, used to conduct a mission service for the Household troops quartered there; and one of his converts, a stalwart trooper of the Blues, expressing his gratitude for these voluntary ministrations, and contrasting them with the officer-like and disciplinary methods of the army chaplains, genially exclaimed, “But I always say there’s not a bit of the gentleman about you, my lord.”  When Dr. Harold Browne became Bishop of Ely, he asked the head verger some questions as to where his predecessor had been accustomed to sit in the Cathedral, what part he had taken in the services, and so on.  The verger proved quite unable to supply the required information, and said in self-excuse, “Well, you see, my lord, his late lordship wasn’t at all a church-going gentleman;” which, being interpreted, meant that, on account of age and infirmities, Bishop Turton had long confined his ministrations to his private chapel.

Just after a change of Government not many years ago, an officer of the Royal Household was chatting with one of the Queen’s old coachmen (whose name and location I, for obvious reasons, forbear to indicate).  “Well, Whipcord, have you seen your new Master of the Horse yet?” “Yes, sir, I have; and I should say that his lordship is more of an indoors man.”  The phrase has a touch of genial contempt for a long-descended but effete aristocracy which tickles the democratic palate.  It was not old Whipcord, but a brother in the craft, who, when asked, during the Jubilee of 1887, if he was driving any of the Imperial and Royal guests then quartered at Buckingham Palace, replied, with calm self-respect, “No, sir; I am the Queen’s Coachman.  I don’t drive the riff-raff.”  I take this to be a sublime instance of the Art of Putting Things.  Lingering for a moment on these back stairs of History, let me tell the tragic tale of Mr. and Mrs. M——.  Mr. M——­ was one of the merchant princes of London, and Mrs. M——­ had occasion to engage a new housekeeper for their palace in Park Lane.  The outgoing official wrote to her incoming successor a detailed account of the house and its inmates.  The butler was a very pleasant man.  The chef was inclined to tipple.  The lady’s-maid gave herself airs; and the head housemaid was a very well principled young woman—­and so on and so forth.  After the signature, huddled away in a casual postscript, came the damning sentence, “As for Mr. and Mrs. M——­, they behave as well as they know how.”  Was it by inadvertence, or from a desire to let people know their proper place, that the recipient of this letter allowed its contents to find their way to the children of the family?