To acquire an estate is, even in these days of inflated prices and
competitive house-hunters, an easy matter compared with finding a name for
it when it is yours. It is then that the real trouble sets in.
Take the case of my friend Buckler.
A little while ago he purchased a property, a few acres on the very top of
a hill not too far from London and only half-a-mile from his present
habitation, and there he is now building a home. At least the plans are
done and the ground has been pegged out. "Here," he will say, quite
unmindful of the clouds emptying themselves all over us--with all an
enthusiast's disregard for others, and an enthusiast, moreover, who has his
abode close by, full of changes of raiment--"here," setting his foot firmly
in the mud, "is where the dining-room will be. Here," moving away a few
yards through the slush, "is the billiard-room." Then, pointing towards the
zenith with his stick, "Above it"--here you look up into the pitiless sky
as well as the deluge will permit--"are two spare rooms, one of which will
be yours when you come to see us." And so forth.
He then leads the way round the place, through brake fern wetter than
waves, to indicate the position of the tennis-courts, and in course of time
you are allowed to return to the dry and spend the rest of the day in
borrowed clothes.
Everyone knows these Kubla Khans decreeing pleasure domes and enlarging
upon them in advance of the builders, and never are they so eloquent and
unmindful of rain and discomforts as when their listeners are poor and
condemned to a squalid London existence for ever.
But that is beside the mark. It is the naming of these new country seats
that leads to such difficulties.
That night at dinner the question arose again.
"As it is on the top of the hill," said a gentle wistful lady, "why not
call it 'Hill Top'? I'm sure I've seen that name before. It is expressive
and simple."
"So simple," said Buckler, "that my nearest neighbour has already
appropriated it."
"I suppose that would be an objection," said the lady, and we all agreed.
"Why not," said another guest, "call it 'The Summit'? or, more concisely,
just 'Summit'?"
"Or why not go further," said a frivolous voice, "and suggest hospitality
too--and Buckler's hospitality is notorious--by calling it 'Summit-to-
Eat'?"
Our silence was properly contemptuous of this sally.
"If you didn't like that you might call it 'Summit-to-Drink,'" the
frivolous voice impenitently continued. "Then you would get all the
Americans there too."
The voice's glass having been replenished (which, I fancy, was its inner
purpose) we became serious again.
"As it is on the top of the hill," said the first lady, "there will
probably be a view. Why not call it, for example, 'Bellevue'? 'Bellevue' is
a charming word."
"A little French, isn't it?" someone inquired.
"Oh, yes, it's French," she admitted. "But it's all right, isn't it? It's
quite nice French."
We assured her that, for a French phrase, it was singularly free from
impropriety.
"But of course," she said, "there's an Italian equivalent, 'Bella Vista.'
'Bella Vista' is delightful."
"I passed a 'Bella Vista' in Surbiton yesterday," said the frivolous voice,
"and an errand-boy had done his worst with it with a very black lead
pencil."
"What could he do?" the gentle lady asked wonderingly, with big violet eyes
distended.
"It is not for me to explain," said the frivolous voice; "but the final
vowel of the first word dissatisfied him and he substituted another. The
capabilities of errand-boys with pencil or chalk should never be lost sight
of when one is choosing a name for a front gate."
"I am all at sea," said the lady plaintively. Then she brightened. "Is
there no prominent landmark visible from the new house?" she asked. "It is
so high there must be."
Our hostess said that by cutting down two trees it would be possible to see
Windsor Castle.
"Oh, then, do cut them down," said the lady, "and call it 'Castle View.'
That would be perfect."
During the panic that followed I made a suggestion. "The best name for it,"
I said, "is 'Buckler's.' That is what the country people will call it, and
so you may as well forestall them and be resigned to it. Besides, it's the
right kind of name. It's the way most of the farms all over England once
were named--after their owners, and where the owner was a man of character
and force the name persisted. Call it 'Buckler's' and you will help
everyone, from the postman to the strange guest who might otherwise tour
the neighbourhood for miles searching for you long after lunch was
finished."
"But isn't it too practical?" the first lady asked. "There's no poetry in
it."
"No," I said, "there isn't. The poetry is in its owner. Any man who can
stand in an open field under a July rainstorm and show another man where
his bedroom is to be in a year's time is poet enough."