tual Duke of
Norfolk. For instance, Norfolk men all make their voices run up very
high at the end of a sentence. The Duke of Norfolk's voice, therefore,
ought to end in a perfect shriek. They often (I am told) end sentences
with the word "together"; entirely irrespective of its meaning. Thus
I shall expect the Duke of Norfolk to say: "I beg to second the motion
together"; or "This is a great constitutional question together." I
shall expect him to know much about the Broads and the sluggish rivers
above them; to know about the shooting of water-fowl, and not to
know too much about anything else. Of mountains he must be wildly and
ludicrously ignorant. He must have the freshness of Norfolk; nay, even
the flatness of Norfolk. He must remind me of the watery expanses, the
great square church towers and the long level sunsets of East England.
If he does not do this, I decline to know him.

I need not multiply such cases; the principle applies everywhere. Thus I
lose all interest in the Duke of Devonshire unless he can assure me that
his soul is filled with that strange warm Puritanism, Puritanism shot
with romance, which colours the West Country. He must eat nothing but
clotted cream, drink nothing but cider, reading nothing but 'Lorna
Doone', and be unacquainted with any town larger than Plymouth, which he
must regard with some awe, as the Central Babylon of the world. Again, I
should expect the Prince of Wales always to be full of the mysticism and
dreamy ardour of the Celtic fringe.

Perhaps it may be thought that these demands are a little extreme; and
that our fancy is running away with us. Nevertheless, it is not my Duke
of Devonshire who is funny; but the real Duke of Devonshire. The point
is that the scheme of titles is a misfit throughout: hardly anywhere do
we find a modern man whose name and rank represent in any way his type,
his locality, or his mode of life. As a mere matter of social comedy,
the thing is worth noticing. You will meet a man whose name suggests a
gouty admiral, and you will find him exactly like a timid organist:
you will hear announced the name of a haughty and almost heathen grande
dame, and behold the entrance of a nice, smiling Christian cook. These
are light complications of the central fact of the falsification of all
names and ranks. Our peers are like a party of mediaeval knights who
should have exchanged shields, crests, and pennons. For the present rule
seems to be that the Duke of S