ME. WALTER TAPPER, A.R.A., PRESIDENT OP THE E.I.B.A., PLACING A LAUREL WREATH ON JOHN WOOD’S HOUSE.
BATH
By “ Scrutator.”
I have never been able to decide between the rival claims of Bath and Oxford as to which is the most beautiful city in England. I purposely confine my bewilderment to this country, so there is no need for Scotsmen to get argumentative about Edinburgh, or for Irishmen to take up the cudgels on behalf of Dublin. I at once admit to them that Edinburgh is the most beautiful city—(in Scotland!)-—and that Dublin surpasses every other city—(in Ireland!). Oxford has an approach from the station that any of the more squalid of our industrial towns might envy, whilst Bath has a fringe of suburbs which I once heard the late Lord Curzon describe as the “ Ragged calico fringe of a beautiful tapestry.” If anyone writes to me to say that the actual words used by his Lordship were ‘ ‘ Ragged calico edge, ’ ’ I shall treat such person’s communication with disdainful silence.
It may be my classical upbringing, but I am inclined to award the palm to Bath. Oxford always fills me with unsatisfied longings; it seems so supremely to be the city of the second best, and yet there is something so beautiful in its ensemble that I have sometimes doubted whether the finest cities do not demand some sacrifice on the part of the indivi
dual buildings—some surrender to the need of the whole. For, apart from the Taylor and Randolph and the Parish Church, neither of them, I suppose, strictly University buildings, is there any building in Oxford, ancient or modern, which attains to any very high degree of excellence? By excellence I mean that quality of performance which is to be observed in the finest examples of the buildingg of Paris, Florence or ancient Athens. I suppose all loyal sons of Oxford will curse me by book and by bell, and the solemn curse of an Oxford man must be a terrible affair, but such is my considered judgment—a judgment that saddens me whilst I write, for Oxford is one of my shrines. I return to it again and again; the allurement of its baffling beauty entices me to my final exasperation. I love it as one would a beautiful and gifted person who never seems to be able to rise to the full height of their opportunities.
Now Bath has quite a different effect on me; I find it extremely satisfying, which sounds like a recommendation to try a particular kind of suet pudding. There is a quality of excellence about many of the buildings that eloquently witness to the quality of the minds of the master builders who erected them. Wood the Elder, Wood the Younger, and Robert
BATH
By “ Scrutator.”
I have never been able to decide between the rival claims of Bath and Oxford as to which is the most beautiful city in England. I purposely confine my bewilderment to this country, so there is no need for Scotsmen to get argumentative about Edinburgh, or for Irishmen to take up the cudgels on behalf of Dublin. I at once admit to them that Edinburgh is the most beautiful city—(in Scotland!)-—and that Dublin surpasses every other city—(in Ireland!). Oxford has an approach from the station that any of the more squalid of our industrial towns might envy, whilst Bath has a fringe of suburbs which I once heard the late Lord Curzon describe as the “ Ragged calico fringe of a beautiful tapestry.” If anyone writes to me to say that the actual words used by his Lordship were ‘ ‘ Ragged calico edge, ’ ’ I shall treat such person’s communication with disdainful silence.
It may be my classical upbringing, but I am inclined to award the palm to Bath. Oxford always fills me with unsatisfied longings; it seems so supremely to be the city of the second best, and yet there is something so beautiful in its ensemble that I have sometimes doubted whether the finest cities do not demand some sacrifice on the part of the indivi
dual buildings—some surrender to the need of the whole. For, apart from the Taylor and Randolph and the Parish Church, neither of them, I suppose, strictly University buildings, is there any building in Oxford, ancient or modern, which attains to any very high degree of excellence? By excellence I mean that quality of performance which is to be observed in the finest examples of the buildingg of Paris, Florence or ancient Athens. I suppose all loyal sons of Oxford will curse me by book and by bell, and the solemn curse of an Oxford man must be a terrible affair, but such is my considered judgment—a judgment that saddens me whilst I write, for Oxford is one of my shrines. I return to it again and again; the allurement of its baffling beauty entices me to my final exasperation. I love it as one would a beautiful and gifted person who never seems to be able to rise to the full height of their opportunities.
Now Bath has quite a different effect on me; I find it extremely satisfying, which sounds like a recommendation to try a particular kind of suet pudding. There is a quality of excellence about many of the buildings that eloquently witness to the quality of the minds of the master builders who erected them. Wood the Elder, Wood the Younger, and Robert