Sir Peregrine is a romantic. He has drawn his sword from its scabbard in defence of aristocracy in a self-conscious act of courage which defies the pressures of self-censorship. We should admire his intention and welcome an essay whose style is so reminiscent of the man with its echoes of the dégagé elegance of corduroy suits, casually knotted scarves and agreeable luncheons in the Beefsteak Club.
Every successful polity is run by an élite. They lay down the rules, written and, even more important, unwritten. Their manners become the aspiration of the majority and in consequence civility and social coherence trickle down the social scale. Public service then becomes the indispensable companion of riches, reducing selfish ostentation to mere vulgarity. Cosimo de’ Medici should be our model, not Bubb Doddington.
The British elite is fading fast. Sir Peregrine laments its passing and this book is a plea against all hope for its revival. As he puts it, ‘Britain is beginning to miss the existence of a political class that saw it as its duty to give a lead … and, I believe, could do again if encouraged rather than discouraged to do so.’
His aspiration is admirable. The prospects that it will be realised are nil. Old elites do not rise like phoenixes, but new elites can absorb the useful characteristics of their predecessors. However, Sir Peregrine espouses a cause, as a recent convert, whose triumph would ensure that the most useful characteristic of the old British elite dies for ever.
Gertrude Himmelfarb has pointed out, with Sir Peregrine’s strong approval, that the British remoralised their country during the 19th century. As a result, crime fell, social cohesion improved and the aspirations of the poor rose in spite of grinding poverty and bouts of mass unemployment.
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