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