Too often, alas! the restorer, when let loose upon an ancient church, restores it so perfectly that he destroys nearly all past history (as well, were it possible, might an aged man's lined and thoughtful face be "restored" to the sweet, though meaningless, simplicity of a baby's). He scrapes the walls most carefully down and makes them outwardly look like new; he possibly restores the fabric backwards to the one period he inclines to, obliterating as far as may be all the storied work of intermediate generations, just in order, forsooth, to make the building all of one style. And upon the unhappy result the grieved antiquary gazes sadly, for its general aspect is no longer ancient, it looks like new, its interest is gone. Sir James Picton has laid down the dictum that the true principle of restoration is this: "Where an unsightly excrescence has been introduced, remove it; where a stone is decayed replace it; where the walls are covered with whitewash, clean them down. If tracery be broken, match it with new of similar character; but spare the antique surface. Do not touch the evidence which time has recorded of the days gone by." In the last sentence lies the very essence of true restoration. A well-known architect once told me that he was commissioned by a great man to design him a little country house wherein he might retire and rusticate away from the trammels of State. "When you design it," said the nobleman to the architect, "be sure you write the word 'cottage' large upon your paper." So I would suggest to the architect-restorer that whenever he is about to restore an ancient building to write the
