’Bah! on trouve des mots quand on monte a l’assaut;
  Oui, j’ai un certain esprit facile et militaire;’

and these two lines sum up a truth about the old oligarchs.  They could not write three legible letters, but they could sometimes speak literature.  Douglas, when he hurled the heart of Bruce in front of him in his last battle, cried out, ’Pass first, great heart, as thou wert ever wont.’  A Spanish nobleman, when commanded by the King to receive a high-placed and notorious traitor, said:  ’I will receive him in all obedience, and burn down my house afterwards.’  This is literature without culture; it is the speech of men convinced that they have to assert proudly the poetry of life.

Anyone, however, who should seek for such pearls in the conversation of a young man of modern Belgravia would have much sorrow in his life.  It is not only impossible for aristocrats to assert proudly the poetry of life; it is more impossible for them than for anyone else.  It is positively considered vulgar for a nobleman to boast of his ancient name, which is, when one comes to think of it, the only rational object of his existence.  If a man in the street proclaimed, with rude feudal rhetoric, that he was the Earl of Doncaster, he would be arrested as a lunatic; but if it were discovered that he really was the Earl of Doncaster, he would simply be cut as a cad.  No poetical prose must be expected from Earls as a class.  The fashionable slang is hardly even a language; it is like the formless cries of animals, dimly indicating certain broad, well-understood states of mind.  ‘Bored,’ ‘cut up,’ ‘jolly,’ ‘rotten,’ and so on, are like the words of some tribe of savages whose vocabulary has only twenty of them.  If a man of fashion wished to protest against some solecism in another man of fashion, his utterance would be a mere string of set phrases, as lifeless as a string of dead fish.  But an omnibus conductor (being filled with the Muse) would burst out into a solid literary effort:  ’You’re a gen’leman, aren’t yer ... yer boots is a lot brighter than yer ’ed...there’s precious little of yer, and that’s clothes...that’s right, put yer cigar in yer mouth ’cos I can’t see yer be’ind it...take it out again, do yer! you’re young for smokin’, but I’ve sent for yer mother....  Goin’? oh, don’t run away:  I won’t ’arm yer.  I’ve got a good ’art, I ’ave....  “Down with croolty to animals,” I say,’ and so on.  It is evident that this mode of speech is not only literary, but literary in a very ornate and almost artificial sense.  Keats never put into a sonnet so many remote metaphors as a coster puts into a curse; his speech is one long allegory, like Spenser’s ‘Faerie Queen.’