by Judy Jones
LEA—A grassland or meadow, especially one that’s gone untilled for a while, as in Gray’s “The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea.” Also spelled “ley” (both forms are pronounced either “lee” or “lay”), it’s more aggressively poetical than most of these terms.
SWALE—The thing is, it’s cool. Either it’s cool because it’s shady, or it’s cool because it’s moist, if not out-and-out marshy. Or both. (They don’t always say which.) Also spelled “swail.”
In the Valley
VALE—A broad, low-sided valley, generally with a good-sized stream running through it. (By extension, it’s the world as a scene of sorrows, with that stream turned into tears.)
DALE—Same as vale, though both more intimate (it’s not always broad) and more upbeat (as in the expression “up hill and down dale”). A related word is “dell,” guaranteed to be both secluded and woodsy.
GLEN—From a Gaelic word meaning “mountain valley.” Now any steep, narrow valley, generally remote and unfrequented—unless by elves.
In the Hills
DOWNS—A plural form (or, less frequently, “down,” the singular). An expanse of hilly, grassy upland, good for grazing. Also, the short-wooled sheep developed there. After the Downs, two parallel hill ranges in southern England.
WELD—The same open, rolling country, but with lots of woods. After the Weald, a once-forested area of Kent, Surrey, and Sussex, in southern England. Say “weeld.” (From the same root: “wold,” an elevated tract of open country or moorland, not necessarily wooded, as in the Cotswolds.)
TOR—England’s short on mountains, and this is about as rugged as the landscape gets: a rocky peak, craggy hill, or—at its least dramatic—a pile of rocks on top of a hill.
TARN—A small mountain lake without significant tributaries. Wordsworth and D. H. Lawrence liked to pause by same.
By the Lake
MERE—Not just the lakes of the Lake District (e.g., Windermere, Grasmere, Buttermere). Can be as small as a pond, and is sometimes used of a marsh. Water’s what’s important: The word is related to the Latin word for “sea.”
RILL—A small brook or stream, a rivulet. No big deal, but your mere’s probably fed by a few.
WEIR—A fence, enclosure of stakes, wattle, or what-have-you placed in a stream to trap fish. On a larger scale, a dam placed across a river or canal to raise or divert the water or to regulate its flow.
On the Farm
CROFT—A small enclosed field or pasture near a house. Sometimes the whole farm, if it’s small and down on its luck (a tenant farm, for instance).
STILE—A set of steps or rungs up one side of a fence or hedge and down the other, of a sort that a person can negotiate easily but a cow can’t.
THORP—Where they’ll try to take you on Saturday night: the nearest small town or village. They may instead call it a “ham” or a “wick.” Look for all three words, now archaic, as elements in English place names.
At the Manor
CHASE—A privately owned, unenclosed game preserve. It’s here that one rides to hounds. And that Lady Chatterley dallies with the gamekeeper.
HEDGEROW—A closely planted row of bushes, shrubs, or trees meant to function as a fence or boundary, or as a deliberate interruption of the view. One might make use of a stile to get over a low-slung hedgerow—though ideally not while a guest at a great estate. Save that kind of behavior for your weekend at the croft.
SHIRE—Another word for each of the counties into which England is divided. But the Shires is specifically the fox-hunting district of central England, consisting mainly of Leicestershire and Northamptonshire. Bear in mind, too, that “country life” counted (and counts) for a great deal in England: If one couldn’t dazzle London, one might still dazzle one’s shire.
In the Garden
BOWER—A shaded, leafy recess, an arbor, into which one withdraws to read or think, and which may be either natural or man-made. (Also, in poetry, a rustic cottage or similar country retreat, or simply a private chamber, even a boudoir.) Spenser’s Bower of Bliss is the legendary one, but it’s the rare country house that doesn’t provide something that passes for a bower.
GAZEBO—A pavilion in the middle of a garden, usually trellised, latticed, cupolaed, and gingerbreaded within an inch of its life. The idea is to stand in it and look all around you: The word is a fanciful takeoff on the Latin future-tense construction and means roughly, “I shall gaze.”
HAHA—A staple in Jane Austen novels. It can be a moat, or just a fence, stone wall, or hedge sunk into the ground; either way, it encloses a garden or park without impairing the view. So called after the presumed exclamation of somebody encountering a particular haha for the first time. THE CLASS STRUCTURE:
THE DUKE AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS
Frankly, it’s a relentless business. Also, complicated and patently unfair. And that’s today. In the nineteenth century, things were considerably worse; just ask Becky Sharp, Elizabeth Bennet, or Pip. But before you do, glance over this table, which, begging your pardon, sir or ma’am, begins just where you’d expect it to: at the very top.
The Royals
A class—and a law—unto themselves. Even now there are those who consider everyone not born into it (and that includes dukes, duchesses, and the Queen Mother) little better than commoners.
KINGS AND QUEENS: Inaccessible, perhaps, but easy to pick out in a crowd, especially in the nineteenth century, during which there were only four of them. Victoria (reigned 1837–1901) needs no introduction here. Before her came a couple of Georges (between them, they reigned 1760–1830) and one William (IV, 1830–1837). N.B.: The younger George (who would become George IV) ruled 1811–1820 for his father (III), who was declared hopelessly insane (although he did eventually recover). This period—the Regency—was one of social complacency, moral laxity, and ostentatious display; provided abundant opportunities for clotheshorses and adventurers; and, in a way, provoked Victorianism.
The Coronation of Queen Victoria by Sir George Hayter
Upon meeting the king or queen: Bow or curtsy—depending on your gender, not theirs—and say “your majesty.” Thereafter, say “sir” or “ma’am.”
PRINCES AND PRINCESSES: Although in fairly wide use on the Continent (French princes, for instance, are usually not royal and rank below dukes), in England the titles are reserved for the children of the sovereign and—feminists take note— those of his grandchildren who are descended through his sons; a ruling queen typically makes her husband a prince, too. (The grandchild provision explains today’s Princess Alexandra, a granddaughter of George V through her father, the Duke of Kent; the husband one explains Prince Philip.) In the nineteenth century two princes figured prominently: George, the prince regent, and Albert, Victoria’s husband, the prince consort. Prince of Wales is, as you’ve heard, the title traditionally conferred on the sovereign’s oldest son.
Upon meeting a prince or princess: Bow or curtsy and say “your royal highness,” subsequently “sir” or “ma’am.”
The Nobles
Or, as the English like to say, the peers of the realm, each of whom passes on his title—or as often, package of titles—to his oldest son. Originally the whole business had to do with ownership of land, discharge of feudal obligations, and the wielding of actual power rather than with mere wealth and privilege. For the last few centuries, though, it’s meant only that such hereditary peers (who come in five strengths), together with a few “life” peers (who come in only one and whose titles are not bequeathable) and Church of England bigwigs, sit together in the House of Lords and continue, with their wives and children, to provide England with her lords and ladies—and her much-debated class system. (The mnemonic you’ll need to remember the five-tiered structure is “Do men ever visit Boston?”) N.B.: A duchess, marchioness, etc., is most often the wife of a duke, marquess, etc.; however, if a woman is the oldest daughter of a duke (etc.) in a family with no male heirs, she becomes a duchess (etc.) “in her own right.
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DUKES AND DUCHESSES: A very big deal, head and shoulders above the other degrees of the peerage. Historically, throughout Europe dukes controlled vast areas—like Bavaria and Normandy—and pretty much called their own shots. This was never the case in England, where the first duke wasn’t created until 1338, but even so, they’re a rare and much-deferred-to breed, a couple of dozen in number. There are a few “royal dukes,” too, relatives of the sovereign like the late Duke of Windsor or the present Dukes of Gloucester, Kent, and York, who seem to like having a title beyond the “prince” that’s theirs by birth. The title has also served as a reward for military heroes, like the Dukes of Marlborough and Wellington.
Upon meeting a duke, say “your grace.” His wife, the duchess, is “your grace,” too.
MARQUESSES AND MARCHIONESSES: First of all it’s “MAR-kwiss” (even when spelled “marquis,” in the French manner) and “MAR-shuness,” and it comes from “march,” an old word for a border territory. The title wasn’t well received at first (the first and second honorees complained that “Marquess is a strange name in this kingdom”), but eventually, with Tudor persistence, it gained acceptance. Formerly a reward for viceroys of India upon their return home, and, in 1917, a compensation to relatives of George V when he made them give up their obviously inappropriate German titles, there are almost as few marquesses around as there are dukes.
Upon meeting a marquess—or anybody from the four lower grades of the peerage— say “my lord.” Call his wife “madam.”
EARLS AND COUNTESSES: William the Conqueror tried, back in the eleventh century, to substitute the Continental title “count,” but nobody bit: They were all too fond of the distinction between eorl, an Old English word meaning “man of position,” and ceorl, an Old English word meaning “churl”; besides, “earl” was the only hereditary title around at the time, and it damn well should have a native flavor. (Women, on the other hand, seem to have had less resistance to the chic French import—hence “countess.”) Today there are a couple of hundred earldoms; particularly effective prime ministers, like Disraeli, the Earl of Beaconsfield, and Anthony Eden, the Earl of Avon, are rewarded with them when they retire.
VISCOUNTS AND VISCOUNTESSES: That’s “VYE-count” and “VYE-countess,” and the title originally designated the fellow who stood in for the count or, more precisely, given that this is England, the earl. (The “vis-” is like the “vice” in “vice president.”) The most recently instituted of the five grades (1440), it’s the accepted way to say thank you to a good speaker of the House of Commons.
BARONS AND BARONESSES: Low men on the peerage totem pole, taking in, originally, those Englishmen whose ancestors had fought during the Middle Ages in Wales, Scotland, and France, and more recently a number of industrialists and trade-union leaders (who are generally given the title only for life). As demonstration of their lack of precedence, barons are never referred to by their title, merely as Lord So-and-so. (For the record, the sequence goes: the Duke of U, the Marquess of V, the Earl of W, the Viscount X, and Lord Y.) Lord Y’s wife is, similarly, Lady Y, never the baroness. Sometimes a given name sneaks in, as with Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
AS FOR THE KIDS: In general, only the oldest son comes out on top—though not until the old man kicks off. In the meantime, if that old man is a duke, marquess, or earl, the son is awarded a “courtesy” title, one of his father’s lesser ones, to use: e.g., the son of a still-living Duke of Wellington would be titled the Marquess Duoro until the major title comes free; eldest sons of viscounts and barons just have to wait. They, and everyone else in the second generation, make do—most of them for life—with what’s called a courtesy style. If you’re lucky (Daddy’s a duke or marquess), you’re “Lord” or “Lady”: Lord John Brown, Lady Mary Brown (daughters of earls are “Lady,” too). If you’re not so lucky, you get a simple “The Hon.” (read: “The Honourable”) to put before your name: The Hon. John Doe, The Hon. Jane Doe. As for the grandchildren: They’re on their own unless they belong to the oldest son.
The Lesser Nobles
Or, depending on your point of view, the titled commoners. They come in two sizes: the baronet and the knight. Don’t look for either in the House of Lords.
BARONETS: Literally, “little barons.” In 1611, King James I, needing capital, instigated “a new dignitie between Barons and Knights,” open to anyone whose paternal grandfather had borne arms, who possessed an annual income of at least a thousand pounds, and who was willing to make a £1,095 down payment. While these Johnny-come-latelies were not, under any circumstances, to think of themselves as noble, they were encouraged to adopt the style Sir John Lately, Bt., and they could pass their title on to their—that’s right—oldest son. Vanity Fairs Sir Pitt Crawley—dirty, cynical, coarse—is one side of the baronet story.
Say: “Sir John.” His wife is “Lady Lately.”
KNIGHTS: The knight was the most significant figure in the feudal system, a mounted horseman who fought for his liege lord and defended the honor of his lady. For a while now, it’s been the most frequently conferred “dignity” in England by far; allows the male recipient a “Sir” (his wife is “Lady”) and the female recipient a “Dame” (her husband gets nothing); but wouldn’t you know, it’s guaranteed for one lifetime and one lifetime only.
Say: As with a baronet. Plus, “Dame Agatha.”
The Gentry
They can be of birth as high and breeding as fine as the nobility; in fact, many of them are the descendants of that nobility’s younger sons and daughters. But there’s no getting around the fact that, as intimidating as their manners and as awesome as their fortunes may be, they are sadly lacking in one thing: titles. As the people at Burkes point out, they’re the only untitled aristocracy in the world.
ESQUIRES: In the Middle Ages, the esquire (or squire) attended the knight and carried his gear. Once the Middle Ages were over, though, somebody decided that the category might be usefully applied to—and we quote—“the sons of peers, the sons of baronets, the sons of knights, the eldest sons of the younger sons of peers, and their eldest sons in perpetuity, the eldest son of the eldest son of a knight, and his eldest son in perpetuity, the king of arms, the herald of arms, officers of the Army or Navy of the rank of captain and upward, sheriffs of counties for life, J.P.’s of counties whilst in commission, serjeants-at-arms, Queen’s counsel …” and, well, you get the picture: It’s a catchall, really, albeit one with connotations of both rank and real estate, and a way of appeasing any number of people who would otherwise risk seeming, in the eyes of the world, no better than their neighbors. It didn’t really work out, though. While the Victorians jealously reserved “esquire” for the landed gentry, and withheld it from commercial and industrial types with too much and too new money, by the start of this century, the word had lost—through careless usage—almost all its distinction. Today the entire male population of Britain and Ireland is regularly so addressed (an “Esq.” after their name taking the place of a “Mr.” before it) by mail-order houses and book clubs.
A note on squires: Not so much an honor or even a slot in the hierarchy as a way of life. They were the big country landowners who exercised authority and financial leverage over their districts or villages, like Squire Western in Tom Jones. A paternal lot, who spoke in broad provincial dialect, rode to hounds, and weren’t necessarily esquires (although they were certainly gentlemen; see below), the squirearchy was extinguished in England by the increasing taxes and creeping urbanism of the nineteenth century.
GENTLEMEN: Historically, of “gentle” birth, entitled to bear arms, owning at least three hundred acres of land, but lacking the larger distinction of being an esquire, let alone a knight or better. For more than a century now the word has had almost no agreed-upon meaning at all (as that old curmudgeon H. W. Fowler lamented, “We are all of us esquires now, and we are none of us gentlemen”), but in Jane Austen’s day it was still something to keep in mind: Mr. Collins was considered an appropriate suit
or for Elizabeth Bennet precisely because he was a gentleman, even though he was also a fool, a clergyman, and her cousin. (And Charlotte Lucas, a knight’s daughter, no less, was happy to land him.)
And So On
Ugh: mostly peasants, servants, grooms, tradesmen, and the like. Obviously, you won’t be paying them your respects. It’s enough that you’re civil (but firm) with them and occasionally throw a little business their way. Nevertheless, there are a handful of folks whom, while they aren’t gentry, mind you, one just might consider having a dance or two with on a slow Saturday night. They are the …
YEOMEN: And here we pass from what is basically the upper middle class to what is, at most, the middle middle one—small, independent farmers who, like the squirearchy, would be forced out of existence by the pressurized ways of nineteenth-century life, but who up until their demise as a class had a reputation for being sturdy and hardworking, sometimes even educated, and possessed the kind of integrity that England is always tapping you on the shoulder to tell you it has. Respectable, landowning, and they could vote, but Emma Woodhouse wouldn’t let poor Harriet Smith marry one. THE CLERGY: KEEPING THEM—
