In the case of a man-servant, especially in London, no written character should ever be held sufficient.  A personal interview with his late master or mistress is indispensable.  This gives a little trouble, no doubt, on both sides; but those who grudge it, for such a purpose, must indeed be grossly selfish, and when they engage a ticket-of-leave man for their butler get no worse than they deserve.  One of the best butlers, however, I ever knew was a ticket-of-leave man—­engaged on the faith of a written character, which was, of course, a forged one, and who remained with his employer no less than eighteen months.  If his speculations on the turf had been successful, he might have parted with him the best of friends, and perhaps have purchased a residence in the same square; but something went wrong with the brother to Bucephalus, whom he had backed for the Derby, and the poor man had to dispose of the whole of his master’s family plate to pay his own debts of honour and defray his travelling expenses—­probably to some considerable distance, as the police could never hear of him.  The risk in taking a butler without a personal guarantee of at least his honesty and sobriety can indeed hardly be exaggerated.  If a clever fellow, his influence over his fellow-servants of the other sex is very great, and it is a recognised maxim of the class never ‘to tell upon one another’ so long as they remain good friends.  I have heard an experienced housewife say there is nothing she dreads so much as an unbroken harmony below stairs; like silence in the nursery, it is ominous of all sorts of mischief.

Of course, the ticket-of-leave man was an extreme case; but it is certain that some butlers who are not thieves are always treading on the very confines of roguery.  They are like trustees who, though they will not touch the principal entrusted to them, not only omit to put it out to the best advantage, but will sometimes even pocket a portion of the interest ‘for their trouble.’  I remember reading a curious case of this sort.  A gentleman who had been with his family in Switzerland for nine months was met by a London acquaintance on his return, who expressed his regret at his having been in trouble at home.  ’Nay, I have been in no trouble,’ he replied, ’and, indeed, none of us have been at home.’  ’But a month ago when I was passing down your street I surely saw a funeral standing at your door?’ Nor had his eyes deceived him.  The butler in charge had let the house for a couple of months, and but for his singular ill-luck in one of his tenants happening to die during their temporary occupation of it, he would have pocketed the rent (minus the money requisite to keep the maids’ mouths shut) and his master would have been none the wiser.  It is said that it is only when we have lost a friend that we come to value him at his true worth; and it is certain that it is only when one’s butler has left us and the tongues of his fellow-servants are loosened that we come to