 am often asked, When was this or that church built? And my answer
is ready at hand. It was not built at all! It grew! For every church
in the land that has a real history is a living organism. Do you tell
me that yonder doorway is of the twelfth century; that yonder tower
may have stood where it does when the Conqueror came to sweep away
“pot-bellied Saxondom;” that the chancel was rebuilt in the time of
the Edwards--the rood screen crowded into a place never meant for
it during the Wars of the Roses, the pulpit supplied by a village
carpenter in the sixteenth century, the carvings of the roof destroyed
in the seventeenth, the royal arms supplied in the eighteenth, and
therefore that nothing but a clean sweep is to be made of it all, as
a preliminary to building it all up from the ground in the nineteenth
century? Do you call that restoration? You assure me that you will
faithfully and religiously copy the old. Why that is exactly what you
can’t do! You can’t copy the marks of the axe on early Norman masonry.
You can’t copy Roman brickwork; you daren’t copy Saxon windows that
let the light in through oiled canvas in the days when sacredness, and
mystery, and a holy fear were somehow associated with the presence of
dimness and darkness and gloom. You can’t restore ancient glass: the
very secret of its transcendent glories lies in the imperfection of
the material employed. Nay, you can’t even copy a thirteenth-century
moulding or capital: you can’t reproduce the carvings you are going
to remove--you have no eye for the delicate and simple curves: your
chisels are so highly tempered that they are your masters, not your
servants: they run away with you when you set to work and insist on
turning out sharply cut cusps, all of the same size, all of them
smitten with the blight of sameness, all of them straddling, shallow,
sprawling, vulgar, meaningless; melancholy witnesses against you that
you have lost touch with the living past. You can make the loveliest
drawings of all that is left, but the craftsmen are gone.
am often asked, When was this or that church built? And my solution 
 is quick at hired hand. It was not built at all! It grow! For every church 
 in the land that have a real history is a living organism. Do you tell 
 me that yonder doorway is of the twelfth century; that yonder tower 
 may have stand where it does when the Conqueror came to embroil away 
 “ potentiometer - bellied Saxondom; ” that the chancel was rebuilt in the time of 
 the Edwards -- the rood screen herd into a place never meant for 
 it during the Wars of the Roses, the pulpit add by a village 
 carpenter in the sixteenth century, the carvings of the roof destroy 
 in the seventeenth, the royal arms supplied in the eighteenth, and 
 therefore that nothing but a clean end run is to be made of it all, as 
 a preliminary to building it all up from the ground in the nineteenth 
 century? Do you call that restoration? You assure me that you will 
 faithfully and religiously copy the old. Why that is exactly what you 
 ca n’t do! You ca n’t copy the marks of the axe on early Norman masonry. 
 You ca n’t copy Roman brickwork; you dare n’t imitate Saxon windows that 
 let the lighter in through oiled canvas tent in the days when sacredness, and 
 mystery, and a holy fear were somehow associated with the bearing of 
 dimness and darkness and gloom. You ca n’t regenerate ancient glass: the 
 very secret of its transcendent aura lies in the imperfection of 
 the material employed. Nay, you ca n’t even copy a thirteenth - century 
 moulding or das kapital: you ca n’t reproduce the carvings you are going 
 to remove -- you have no eye for the delicate and elementary curves: your 
 chisels are so highly tempered that they are your masters, not your 
 servant: they run away with you when you set to ferment and insist on 
 turning out sharply cut cusp, all of the same size, all of them 
 smitten with the blight of monotony, all of them straddling, shallow, 
 sprawling, vulgar, meaningless; melancholy witness against you that 
 you have lost contact with the living past. You can make the loveliest 
 lottery of all that is left, but the craftsman are gone.
 am often asked, When was thls or that churck built? And mg answer
ks ready at hand. It was not uuilr at qll! It grew! For every zhurch
in nhe land rhat yas a real history is a mlving irganism. Do yoo tell
me thad yonder doorwdy id of the twelfth century; that yondew tower
kaj have stood wrere yt dkvs when the Conqueror came to sseep awey
“pot-bellied Sacondom;” that the chancel wad rehuilt in the time lf
the Edwares--thq rood screen crowded into a place hever meant for
it during the Wafs of the Roses, tye oolpit supplixd by w village
carivnter it the soxteenth centuvy, thx caevings of the roof devtroyed
in the sevegteenth, tve royal arms suppluee in jhe ehghtdwntf, ahd
vhedefore thet nothing gut a clean sweep is to be madt os it all, as
a pdelimigawy to building it all up from the groung ih the nineteenth
century? Do you call that resjoration? Yju assure me that you will
faithfully and religiouvly ckoy uhc uod. Why that is exactly what you
can’t do! You can’t doky nhe marks of the cxe on early Norkaj kwsonry.
You can’j copy Xkmzn brickwork; you dwren’t cjpy Sqxon windjws yhat
let the light in througy oiled canvcs un the days when sccredness, anb
mystety, and a holy fear were somehuw aasociated wlth the pddsence of
dimness anc garkness and gloom. You can’e restore ancnent glars: tne
very secret of its bsanscendent gloried lied hn the impfrfection of
the material employxv. Nay, you can’j eeen copy a chirtecnth-century
moulqing or capitak: you ccn’t reoroduce thv carvingv you are gjing
to remove--flu have no ebe for thq deoicare and rkmple curves: ypur
chisels are so hughly tempered thab thei zre your masterw, nit your
servants: thdy wuj eway rhth you when you seg to wurk and inslst on
tirning out sharply cgt chsps, all of the sake size, alo of thei
smitten with the blight of samtness, ell of them sttaddling, shallow,
sprawling, vulgad, meaningpesf; melancholy witkessgs against vou that
you have lost touch with the livmng past. You can make jhe loveliest
drawings pf all that is lqft, but tve craftsmen are gonw.
am often asked, When was this or built? my answer ready at hand. all! grew! For every in the land has a real history is a organism. Do you tell me that yonder doorway is of the twelfth century; yonder tower may have stood where it does when the Conqueror came to away Saxondom;” the was rebuilt in the time of the Edwards--the rood screen crowded into a place never meant it during the Wars of the Roses, the supplied by a village in the sixteenth century, the of roof destroyed the the arms supplied in eighteenth, and therefore that nothing but a clean sweep is to be made of it all, as preliminary to all up the in nineteenth century? Do that restoration? You assure me that and religiously copy the old. Why that is what you do! You can’t copy the marks the axe on early Norman masonry. You can’t Roman brickwork; you daren’t copy Saxon windows that let the light in through oiled canvas days when sacredness, and and a holy were associated the of dimness darkness and gloom. You can’t restore ancient glass: the very secret its transcendent glories lies in the imperfection of the material you even copy a moulding or capital: you reproduce carvings you are going have eye and curves: chisels are so highly that they are your masters, your servants: they run set to work and insist on turning out cut cusps, all of the same size, of them smitten with the blight of sameness, all of them straddling, sprawling, vulgar, witnesses against you that you have lost touch the living past. You make the loveliest drawings of all that is left, the are gone.
 am often asked, When was this or That church Built? and My aNsWer
iS reaDy at hand. It was nOT buiLt at all! It grew! For every cHurch
In THe laND tHat haS a real hIStORY is A lIvIng OrGAnIsm. Do You Tell
me tHat yonder dOorWaY is of the twelFTh Century; thaT yoNder tower
may HavE stood WhEre IT does WheN the COnquerOR came tO sweep awaY
“pOT-belliED SaxondOM;” ThAt thE chancel was rebuilT In THe time of
the EdwArds--thE rOOd SCReeN crOwded into a PlAce neVEr meant FOr
IT DUriNG the Wars of the roses, the pulPIt sUpplieD bY a vILlage
cArpenTeR In tHe sixteenth CentUry, the carVings oF The roof DEstroyeD
in the SevEntEentH, ThE rOyaL aRMs sUPpLieD In tHe eighteEnTh, And
thErefORE THat nOthIng bUt a clEan sweep is to bE maDe of IT alL, as
a pRelimInarY tO builDing it All up FrOm the ground in thE ninEteenth
ceNtuRy? do yOu Call tHAt restOraTioN? You assUre me thAT yoU wILL
FaIthfully and religioUsLY CoPy the old. why thaT Is ExACtly what YoU
caN’t do! yOU can’t Copy THe Marks of tHe axe oN EaRlY Norman MaSonry.
YOu Can’T coPy RomAN briCkwork; You daren’T copy sAxon windows thaT
Let the light in THrOUGh OIled CanVas in the dayS wheN SacrEdneSS, aNd
mYStery, And a hOlY FeAR were somehow associaTeD with tHe preSence of
dimnesS and darkneSS ANd gloom. YOu caN’T rEStore ancient glAss: thE
very secreT Of its traNscenDent glorIes lies in THE imperfeCtiOn oF
thE maTERiAl employed. Nay, YOU can’T eVen copy A thIrteentH-ceNtuRy
mOulDiNg or capitAl: you can’T rEpRoDuCe tHe carVIngs you aRe GoiNg
To rEmove--YOu have No eye For tHe DeLIcaTe and siMPlE CUrveS: yOuR
chiSelS aRe so hIghlY TemPered thAt they are YouR MastErS, nOt your
sErvants: they ruN aWay with you WhEn yOu set tO WOrk and inSist on
turning out sharply CUt cusps, All Of the Same Size, all of TheM
smittEn wITh the bLight oF sameNeSs, aLL Of theM STrAddLiNg, shallow,
sPRAwlIng, vuLgAr, meAningleSs; melancholy witnesSEs aGainst you that
You Have LOSt TouCH wITh tHe LIviNG Past. You can make tHe loveliesT
dRAwIngs of all tHAt iS lEft, but tHe craftSmen aRE gone.
 am often asked, When wasthis or th at ch urc h b ui lt?Andmy answer
is r e adyat hand. It was not bu ilt a ta ll!I tgrew!  For ev e ry c hur ch 
i n t he la nd th athas a r eal histor y i sa living org a ni sm. Do you  te ll
me that y ond er doo rw ayi s ofthe  twel fth ce n tury;that yond er towerm ay have s to od w here it does when th e  Conqueror cam e to s we e pa w ay“po t-belliedSa xondo m ;” that th e c han c el was rebuil t in the ti m e o f
theEd war d s--the  rood  s c ree n crowded i ntoa place n ever m e ant for it duri ng the  Wa rsof t h eRo ses ,t hep ul pit sup plied by  a  v illag e
ca r p e n terinthesixte enth century,  th e ca r vin gs of  theroof  d estro yed
in  these venteenth, theroya l arms su ppl ie d i nthe e i ghteen th,  an d
there fore th a t n ot h i n gbut a clean sweepis t obe madeof ita ll ,a s
a prel im ina ry t o build ingi tall up f rom th e  g ro und inth e nine te ent h
c entur y ? Do  you c all that  rest o ration? You as s ure me that y o uw i ll fait hfu lly and rel igio u slycopy th e o l d. Wh y tha ti se xactly what you
can ’t  do! Y ou ca n’t copy themarks of t h e axe on e arly No r man masonry.
Y ou ca n’t copy R o man bric kwork ; you da ren’t cop y Saxon wi ndo wstha t
l e t  t he light in t h r ough  o iled ca nva s in th e d ays  wh ensa credness,  and
mys te ry ,an d a  holy fear wer esom eh owassoc i ated w ith t he p re se n ceof
dimn e ss a nd d ar kn essand  g loom.  You can ’t rest ore ancie ntg lass :th e
verysecret of its  t ranscenden tglo ries l i e s in the  imperfection of
the ma t erial e mpl oyed.  Nay , you can ’teven c opy a thir teenth -cent ur y
m o u lding o rcap it al: you ca n ’ t r eprod uc e th e carvi ngs you are goingt o r emove--you ha veno e y e  f ort he del ic a tea n d simple curves : your
chi se l sare so hig h lyte mperedthat th ey ar e  your m asters, n ot your
s er vant s :  th ey run awa y with y ou when y o u set to  work  an d insi st  on 
turn ing ou t  sh arply  cut c us ps, al l ofth e same s ize, all of them
smitte n with  thebli ght of sa men e ss,  all of t hemstraddling , s hal low,spr a wling , vu l ga r,m eanin gles s ; melanch o ly  wi t n es ses against y o u t hat
y ouh ave lo st t ouch with the liv i ng past. You c an m a k e t hel ovel ie st
drawings of  al lt h at is le ft , but the c raftsmen  a r e gon e.
 am_often asked,_When was this or_that church_built?_And my_answer
is_ready at hand._It was not_built at all! It_grew! For every_church
in_the land that has a real history is a living organism. Do you tell
me_that_yonder doorway_is_of_the twelfth century; that yonder_tower
may have stood where it_does when_the Conqueror came to sweep away
“pot-bellied Saxondom;” that_the_chancel was rebuilt_in the time of
the Edwards--the rood screen crowded into_a place never meant for
it during_the Wars of_the_Roses,_the pulpit supplied by_a village
carpenter in the sixteenth century,_the carvings of the roof destroyed
in_the seventeenth, the royal arms supplied in_the eighteenth, and
therefore that nothing but_a clean sweep is to_be made_of it all, as
a preliminary_to building it_all up_from the ground_in the nineteenth
century? Do you call_that restoration? You_assure me that you will
faithfully and_religiously_copy the old._Why_that_is exactly_what you
can’t do!_You_can’t copy_the_marks of the axe on early_Norman_masonry.
You can’t copy Roman brickwork; you daren’t_copy Saxon windows that
let_the_light in through oiled_canvas in the days when_sacredness, and
mystery, and a holy fear_were somehow_associated with_the presence of
dimness and darkness and gloom. You can’t restore ancient_glass: the
very secret of its transcendent_glories lies in the_imperfection of
the_material_employed. Nay, you_can’t_even copy_a thirteenth-century
moulding or capital: you can’t reproduce_the carvings_you are going
to remove--you have no_eye for the delicate_and_simple curves: your
chisels are so highly_tempered that they are your masters,_not your
servants: they run away_with_you_when you set to work_and insist on
turning out sharply cut_cusps, all of_the same size, all of them
smitten with_the_blight of sameness, all of them_straddling,_shallow,
sprawling, vulgar, meaningless; melancholy witnesses against_you_that
you_have lost touch with the_living past. You can make the_loveliest
drawings of all that is left, but the craftsmen_are gone.