From The Economist's 1843 Magazine, December 13:
The market for “noble” titles is booming
George Wentworth, Lord of Hardwick, definitely looked the part of an aristocrat: blond hair, lantern jaw, manifestly excellent skin. His LinkedIn profile, however, suggested a less than noble upbringing: New Hampshire childhood, degrees in graphic design from the University of Massachusetts, Lowell and in management from the London School of Economics. George’s career saw him rise from deputy general manager at a Subway to the owner of a human-resources consultancy, Group Wentworth. The first time we spoke, he Zoomed me from his high-rise office on 59th Street in Manhattan, two miles and several tax brackets away from my own hovel.
George told me he had wanted to acquire a noble title since he was a teenager. His father had some English blood in him – not much, but enough to turn him into a rabid Anglophile – and this misty sense of connection to England had been transmitted to George. When he was in his early 30s, George started poking around the internet with hopes of establishing a more solid bond. He discovered the Manorial Society of Great Britain, a network for historical preservationists that also deals in noble titles. “I decided to give myself a nice gift for my 40th birthday,” George told me.
He was drawn to the manor of Hardwick in Nottinghamshire because of the area’s association with the legend of Robin Hood. After the Norman conquest in 1066 the manor – a large parcel of land – was awarded as a spoil of war to Roger de Busli, a baron who died without an heir. The manor was given to another baron, only to be confiscated when he led a rebellion against the king. It then passed to a distant relative of de Busli, after which it was gifted and re-gifted like a fondue set until it ended up in the possession of the Dukes of Newcastle, who incorporated it into their estate, Clumber Park. In 1927 the last Duke of Newcastle sold Clumber Park to pay off debts, and in 1945 the estate – including the manor of Hardwick – was acquired by the National Trust, Britain’s leading heritage organisation.
With the help of the Manorial Society, George learned that he could buy the lordship of Hardwick without buying the manor itself – for less than £10,000. The process was relatively straightforward: the society brokered a deal with the current titleholder; meanwhile George hired a solicitor who confirmed the title’s authenticity and ensured the relevant paperwork was in order.
Aristocracy retains a certain mystique for Americans like George and meprecisely because our identity is cast in opposition to itThere was something rather preposterous about this. For less money George could have visited a Moscow flea market, invested in a bin of old military medals and declared that he was to be acknowledged henceforward as a Hero of the Soviet Union. What exactly had he bought that could survive the indignity of being sold?
Aristocracy retains a certain mystique for Americans like George and me precisely because our identity is cast in opposition to it. Our politics, art and culture has at its heart the belief that titles of “nobility” conferred by a monarch are ridiculous. Men are created equal, and so on. Hereditary nobles, like all good monsters, are gross and engrossing because they defy modern democratic principles. As disenchantment with these principles grows, so does interest in their antithesis. This interest transcends our everyday fascination with the British royal family, which stems mostly from the Windsors’ made-for-TV blend of palace intrigue and celebrity gossip. Real aristocrats are both living fossils and tailor-made nemeses. They send chills down our spine and shivers up our inseam when they, say, appreciate fine art, hold their cigarettes at odd angles and answer the question, “Oh so you think you’re better than us?” simply by existing.
Naturally, I’ve always wanted to meet one. George told me I could do just that at the next Manorial Society get-together in London. At Christmas, they go carolling. In the summer, they hold a reception at the House of Lords. George cordially invited me to be his guest at the latter. “They announce you, you have to bring the invitation…” he mooned.
“Do they read your title?” I asked.
“They read your title. It’s wonderful.”
“Yes,” I said. “Wonderful.” I bade George farewell. Then I dropped off my wedding suit at the dry-cleaners and booked the cheapest, most stopped-over flight I could find.
Today’s English nobility has its origins in northern France. After the Norman conquest, William the Conqueror divvied up his new island among trusted subordinates – barons – in return for their service. The barons had proved their worth in war; now they functioned as the king’s tenants-in-chief – literal landlords. Over the course of centuries, new ranks were added to this warrior aristocracy, and the chain of command that trickled down from God to king to men-at-arms stratified further.
In 1337 Edward III created the first English duke (from the Latin dux, or leader), when he fastened a ceremonial sword to his eldest son’s girdle and proclaimed him Duke of Cornwall. The title of marquess was given to those who oversaw the Marches – the restive border regions close to Wales and Scotland. William and his original barons may have been spurred by dreams of glory and plunder, but their descendants became less pugnacious, and more recognisably “noble”, when they sublimated their bloodlust into lofty ideals of chivalry.
Come the year 1611, James I found himself in desperate need of funds for a war in Ireland, so he decided to sell the title of baronet – one grade below baron – to any interested parties who could foot the bill of £1,000 (about $300,000 in today’s money). This proved so profitable that later monarchs would do the same whenever they were in a pinch.
Nobles themselves began to hawk assets as the financial need arose. This happened more often as industrialisation, urbanisation and political reform displaced their authority and privilege. Downwardly mobile aristos got into the business of auctioning off family holdings – lands, mansions, silverware and spare titles.
Trade in British titles continued until the Honours Act of 1925. Three years earlier David Lloyd George, the prime minister, was revealed to have been flogging new peerages to donors and unsavoury characters. The Honours Act outlawed the sale of peerages, which entitle their holders to sit as legislators in the House of Lords.
Little could Parliament have known that their well-intentioned legislation would do nothing to stop enterprising hucksters from peddling lesser titles and God-knows-what else on the world wide web – much to the chagrin of men like Richard Bridgeman, the seventh Earl of Bradford, who operates the Fake Titles web directory. The earl became the foremost debunker of scam titles after he learned of a fellow who had paid to become Lord Newport – which was irksome to Bridgeman because the real Viscount Newport happened to be his son. It turned out that one needed little more than a colour printer and an internet connection to sell bogus certificates to credulous marks around the world. (The Earl of Bradford’s activism has come at a cost: the restaurants he owns have been mysteriously review-bombed on Yelp.)
The only real noble title you can legitimately buy is a Scottish barony. A cheaper, if not genuinely aristocratic, option is the manorial lordship. These feudal titles refer not to Lord lords, but to the gentlemen who managed the lords’ estates. Groundskeepers, if you like. A world of difference is contained within the preposition “of”. A manorial lord cannot call himself the right Lord Grandiloquence; rather, he is John Bogminder, Lord of Grandiloquence....
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