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 Sussex may lawfully own the whole of Essex; and that the Marquis of Cornwall may own all the hills and valleys so long as they are not Cornish.

The clue to all this tangle is as simple as it is terrible.  If England is an aristocracy, England is dying.  If this system is the country, as some say, the country is stiffening into more than the pomp and paralysis of China.  It is the final sign of imbecility in a people that it calls cats dogs and describes the sun as the moon—­and is very particular about the preciseness of these pseudonyms.  To be wrong, and to be carefully wrong, that is the definition of decadence.  The disease called aphasia, in which people begin by saying tea when they mean coffee, commonly ends in their silence.  Silence of this stiff sort is the chief mark of the powerful parts of modern society.  They all seem straining to keep things in rather than to let things out.  For the kings of finance speechlessness is counted a way of being strong, though it should rather be counted a way of being sly.  By this time the Parliament does not parley any more than the Speaker speaks.  Even the newspaper editors and proprietors are more despotic and dangerous by what they do not utter than by what they do.  We have all heard the expression “golden silence.”  The expression “brazen silence” is the only adequate phrase for our editors.  If we wake out of this throttled, gaping, and wordless nightmare, we must awake with a yell.  The Revolution that releases England from the fixed falsity of its present position will be not less noisy than other revolutions.  It will contain, I fear, a great deal of that rude accomplishment described among little boys as “calling names”; but that will not matter much so long as they are the right names.

THE GARDENER AND THE GUINEA

Strictly speaking, there is no such thing as an English Peasant.  Indeed, the type can only exist in community, so much does it depend on cooperation and common laws.  One must not think primarily of a French Peasant; any more than of a German Measle.  The plural of the word is its proper form; you cannot have a Peasant till you have a peasantry.  The essence of the Peasant ideal is equality; and you cannot be equal all by yourself.