Adam have all left the impress of their individual genius on this lovely city of the west. If I had to choose which town I should like to live in I should decide for Bath with long holidays at Oxford. I think that for permanency the Bath Buns would be more endurable than the Oxford trousers. I once had a client who started talking to me about building him a perfect house, an idea which I promptly eliminated by telling him that I did not build perfect houses, that if he wanted an architect who would build him a perfect house he must seek help elsewhere. I told him that I did not like perfect houses any more than I liked perfect people; their perfection was usually obtained at too great a cost. However, this is by the way. My point is that I doubt if there can be a perfect city any more than there can be a perfect house, that any perfection must be the perfection of a rather low performance, that if the heights of emotional interest are to be achieved, there will be some valleys of might-have-been better. Now if I had any criticism to make of Bath, it is that in some moods she is a little too majestic, a little aloof, a little too remote from everyday experience. There is about her a touch of patrician haughtiness, and, as the charlady said, “ I do ’ate ’aught ”! A robust contemptuousness whieh seems to ask with the insolence of a Beau Nash, “ Who the deuce you are ” ? Bath is proud where Oxford is humble, and if we admit the justifiable pride of the beautiful and the efficient, it is the humility of the wise that we love.
But in spite of the awesomeness of those imposing squares and spectacular crescents, those noble streets built for parade and pomp, there is at the same time an air of gaiety about the city—a holiday feeling that pervades and exhilarates both resident and visitor.
There is, as always with an ancient pleasure resort, an accompanying air of sadness, a wistful longing after vanished glories, a gaiety that is half a sigh. Possibly Venice is the supreme example of this, and if Venice is haunted with ghosts in cloaks and masks, Bath still echoes in fancy to the tap of red-heeled shoes.
This week, the Mayor and Aldermen and Council of the City of Bath are celebrating the bi-centenary of the arrival of the Elder Wood in the Somerset town. The President of the Royal Institute of British Architects hung a wreath on Wood’s house; as an admirer of the Romans he should have been particularly happy in his visit to Bath. Possibly, also assisted by the Mayor and Corporation, he ate a Bath Bun, but much as I like Bath Buns, my own recommendation would be a Bath Oliver biscuit. As a rule, it is only a resident or an habitue who knows about these delicate little circular pieces of baked pastry the colour of parchment; they are a sort of reserved mystery to which only the initiated, the real lovers of Bath, are introduced. They should be eaten sparingly,_ never more than one or two at a time, accompanied by a small glass of old port. I believe they were invented by Dr. Oliver somewhere about the middle of the 18th century, possibly as a sort of fasting fare for his overfed patients, but they conjure up (with the help of the port) a picture of Bath in its heyday—the Bath of the stage coach and the private chaise, of the sedan chair, of Ralph Allen, most princely of patrons, and of Beau Nash, most impertinent Master of Ceremonies. They act as a sort of time machine to transport you back to the crinolines and patches, the kisses, quarrels and duels of our ancestors. Bath, of course, had its reputation as a, health resort long before the 18th century. The Romans first discovered the curative qualities of its waters, and there is still sufficient of the Roman Bath left for us to realise the importance that the
place had for the Masters of the Ancient World. During the 19th century Bath was somewhat neglected; the Victorians were probably a little shocked of the ghosts of those naughty red-heeled people who danced and frivolled within its walls. The city in those days appears to have been surrendered to fat old ladies with pug-dogs who drove about in a mysterious conveyance called a landau, and to yellow-faced and short-tempered Anglo-Indians, doubtless attracted by the balm of the healing waters.
The 20th century has witnessed a kind of Renaissance—the return to the road has done it. You can, if you like, start magnificently from London along the new arterial Great West Road, picking up the trail of the Old Bath Road, where it leaves Hounslow, and then on to Slough, Maidenhead, Newbury and Marlborough. You find the old stage coach inns waiting you along the way, called into renewed life and activity by the return to the road, and if you were lucky and the ties of business were not too great, you reached Bath in time for the centenary festivities and paid your humble tribute to that precocious architect who, it is said, had already in the early twenties of his life conceived the main lines of his immense design.
Professional Societies
Liverpool Architectural Society
The official opening of the Society ’s new premises, Bluecoat Chambers, School Lane, will take place on November 9, when Sir Reginald Blomfield, R.A., will read a paper on “ Old French Architecture and its Relation to Modern Practice.” On November 23, Professor S. D. Adshead will read a paper on “ Architecture and the British Empire,” and Professor Patrick Abercrombie follows, on December 7, with a paper on ‘ ‘ The Town Planning and City Building of the Knights of Malta.” A number of interesting papers have been arranged during the early months of next year, among which we note on January 11 an informal talk on “ The Work of the R.I.B.A.” by its Secretary, Mr. MacAlister, and a paper on “ Logic in Architecture,” by Mr. Robert Atkinson on March 21.
Southend-oin-Seffl and District Society of Architects
The Council at their last meeting agreed in principle to the formation of the Essex Society of Architects, and steps are being taken to convene meetings in the near future at Romford, Chelmsford and Colchester with a view to setting up branches with the Southend Society of a federal organization, to be known as the Essex Society of Architects. This body will, it is hoped, be affiliated to the R.I.B.A.
The Southend Society is now completing the first year of its existence and possesses a membership role of nearly 60. It has held monthly meetings during the year, at whieh lectures have been given by eminent architects.
The first annual dinner of the Society will be held on December 15 at Southend, and Mr. Walter Tapper, A.R.A., President of the R.I.B.A., has promised to be present.
Architects in Essex who would be willing to support the formation of the Essex Society are requested to write to Mr. D. N. Martin-Kaye, A.R.I.B.A., Hon. Secretary, at the School of Arts and Crafts, Southend.
But in spite of the awesomeness of those imposing squares and spectacular crescents, those noble streets built for parade and pomp, there is at the same time an air of gaiety about the city—a holiday feeling that pervades and exhilarates both resident and visitor.
There is, as always with an ancient pleasure resort, an accompanying air of sadness, a wistful longing after vanished glories, a gaiety that is half a sigh. Possibly Venice is the supreme example of this, and if Venice is haunted with ghosts in cloaks and masks, Bath still echoes in fancy to the tap of red-heeled shoes.
This week, the Mayor and Aldermen and Council of the City of Bath are celebrating the bi-centenary of the arrival of the Elder Wood in the Somerset town. The President of the Royal Institute of British Architects hung a wreath on Wood’s house; as an admirer of the Romans he should have been particularly happy in his visit to Bath. Possibly, also assisted by the Mayor and Corporation, he ate a Bath Bun, but much as I like Bath Buns, my own recommendation would be a Bath Oliver biscuit. As a rule, it is only a resident or an habitue who knows about these delicate little circular pieces of baked pastry the colour of parchment; they are a sort of reserved mystery to which only the initiated, the real lovers of Bath, are introduced. They should be eaten sparingly,_ never more than one or two at a time, accompanied by a small glass of old port. I believe they were invented by Dr. Oliver somewhere about the middle of the 18th century, possibly as a sort of fasting fare for his overfed patients, but they conjure up (with the help of the port) a picture of Bath in its heyday—the Bath of the stage coach and the private chaise, of the sedan chair, of Ralph Allen, most princely of patrons, and of Beau Nash, most impertinent Master of Ceremonies. They act as a sort of time machine to transport you back to the crinolines and patches, the kisses, quarrels and duels of our ancestors. Bath, of course, had its reputation as a, health resort long before the 18th century. The Romans first discovered the curative qualities of its waters, and there is still sufficient of the Roman Bath left for us to realise the importance that the
place had for the Masters of the Ancient World. During the 19th century Bath was somewhat neglected; the Victorians were probably a little shocked of the ghosts of those naughty red-heeled people who danced and frivolled within its walls. The city in those days appears to have been surrendered to fat old ladies with pug-dogs who drove about in a mysterious conveyance called a landau, and to yellow-faced and short-tempered Anglo-Indians, doubtless attracted by the balm of the healing waters.
The 20th century has witnessed a kind of Renaissance—the return to the road has done it. You can, if you like, start magnificently from London along the new arterial Great West Road, picking up the trail of the Old Bath Road, where it leaves Hounslow, and then on to Slough, Maidenhead, Newbury and Marlborough. You find the old stage coach inns waiting you along the way, called into renewed life and activity by the return to the road, and if you were lucky and the ties of business were not too great, you reached Bath in time for the centenary festivities and paid your humble tribute to that precocious architect who, it is said, had already in the early twenties of his life conceived the main lines of his immense design.
Professional Societies
Liverpool Architectural Society
The official opening of the Society ’s new premises, Bluecoat Chambers, School Lane, will take place on November 9, when Sir Reginald Blomfield, R.A., will read a paper on “ Old French Architecture and its Relation to Modern Practice.” On November 23, Professor S. D. Adshead will read a paper on “ Architecture and the British Empire,” and Professor Patrick Abercrombie follows, on December 7, with a paper on ‘ ‘ The Town Planning and City Building of the Knights of Malta.” A number of interesting papers have been arranged during the early months of next year, among which we note on January 11 an informal talk on “ The Work of the R.I.B.A.” by its Secretary, Mr. MacAlister, and a paper on “ Logic in Architecture,” by Mr. Robert Atkinson on March 21.
Southend-oin-Seffl and District Society of Architects
The Council at their last meeting agreed in principle to the formation of the Essex Society of Architects, and steps are being taken to convene meetings in the near future at Romford, Chelmsford and Colchester with a view to setting up branches with the Southend Society of a federal organization, to be known as the Essex Society of Architects. This body will, it is hoped, be affiliated to the R.I.B.A.
The Southend Society is now completing the first year of its existence and possesses a membership role of nearly 60. It has held monthly meetings during the year, at whieh lectures have been given by eminent architects.
The first annual dinner of the Society will be held on December 15 at Southend, and Mr. Walter Tapper, A.R.A., President of the R.I.B.A., has promised to be present.
Architects in Essex who would be willing to support the formation of the Essex Society are requested to write to Mr. D. N. Martin-Kaye, A.R.I.B.A., Hon. Secretary, at the School of Arts and Crafts, Southend.