(uninstructed otherwise) it suggests a lofty and lonely crag somewhere in
the wintry seas towards the Orkheys or Norway; and barely clinging to the
top of this crag the fortress of some forgotten chieftain. As it happens,
of course, I know that the word does not mean this; it means another Fleet
Street journalist like myself or only different from myself in so far as
he has sought to secure money while I have sought to secure a jolly time.

A title does not now even serve as a distinction: it does not distinguish.
A coronet is not merely an extinguisher: it is a hiding-place.

But the really odd thing is this. This false quality in titles does not
merely apply to the new and vulgar titles, but to the old and historic
titles also. For hundreds of years titles in England have been
essentially unmeaning; void of that very weak and very human instinct in
which titles originated. In essential nonsense of application there is
nothing to choose between Northcliffe and Norfolk. The Duke of Norfolk
means (as my exquisite and laborious knowledge of Latin informs me) the
Leader of Norfolk. It is idle to talk against representative government
or for it. All government is representative government until it begins to
decay. Unfortunately (as is also evident) all government begins to decay
the instant it begins to govern. All aristocrats were first meant as
envoys of democracy; and most envoys of democracy lose no time in becoming
aristocrats. By the old essential human notion, the Duke of Norfolk ought
simply to be the first or most manifest of Norfolk men.

I see growing and filling out before me the image of an actual 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