The days of our youth are regarded, not without reason, as the period of our greatest happiness. It is often a transparent fiction, but on the whole there is an element of truth in the idea. For one thing our lives are then before us, and even if we have no definite course to be followed steadily there is generally the beacon of hope to inspire our progress. In after years, especially if we have been successful, the obstacles seem to have been lower and fewer. We may imagine, therefore, that the relentless advance of time is regarded with equal anxiety by inanimate things. If the stones, bricks, and timbers of ancient secular edifices could speak they would wish us to believe, as human beings do, that their early days were the best. Perhaps they would be right in this supposition, for buildings when first erected serve the purpose for which they are required and generally satisfy those who own and live in them. No doubt perfection was not attained in regard to the full utilisation of the site, the accommodation provided, and so forth, in the past any more than in the present, but ancient buildings would receive a certain measure of praise on completion. So it would be natural that the structure itself, given the power to absorb impressions, would look back to its earliest and most useful existence with the same feeling of regret experienced by most people in maturity or old age. If it were an Elizabethan mansion, the principal facade would recall with pride the arrival on horseback or otherwise of those notable guests who, dim years ago, conferred splendour and everlasting honour on the establishment, each projecting bay meanwhile looking down with mingled wonder and disparagement on the apparently lifeless motor carriage now bringing visitors to its time-worn entrance. The interior of the ancient mansion would be inclined no less than the exterior to look upon modern beings as usurpers and unheroic characters, compared with those who once walked through the stately halls and corridors. It would be interesting indeed if we could interpret the feelings of these monuments of the past. Such a chronicle would be as full of pathos as any history of a noble race or family, once powerful and magnificent, now crest-fallen or defunct. For building materials are subject to stranger vicissitudes than those who cause them to be manipulated. Even if they have only decay to contend with it is a constant struggle against their eventual fate, but as often as not they have to face destruction sooner or later. Sometimes the stones which have been used in an historic building are forced to do service again and again until their record and significance are lost. Occasionally we have a clue to the past, as in the case of “Nonsuch,” the beautiful palace begun by Henry VIII, and once an attraction on the road to Epsom. It is supposed that when this building was pulled down, to the perpetual disgrace of the first Duchess of Cleveland, some of the materials were used in the construction of “Durdans,” the prototype of the existing Surrey residence of Lord Rosebery. The fate of the Holbein Gateway, which once adorned Whitehall, was to be dismembered by order of the hero of Culloden, the idea being that it should be re-erected in the Great Park at Windsor. This was never done, though Thomas Sandby drew up a scheme at the time; and with the exception of a few fragments, this most interesting relic of Tudor architecture only survives in illustrations and models. A better destiny was in store for a later structure which outlived the esteem of the authorities, namely Temple Bar. That this work by Sir Christopher Wren should have been removed from Fleet Street was essential, no doubt, through the press of traffic which had arisen; but it is astonishing that the stones should have been permitted to lie about in the Farringdon Road for some years until rescued and re-erected at Theobald’s Park by Sir Henry Meux. The City Corporation struck a medal to commemorate the demolition in 1878, but it may be hoped that some day another one may be issued simultaneously with the restoration to London of this unique relic. Such examples of vandalism could be multiplied indefinitely; and when buildings destroyed by other means, such as fire, are added to the list, it is a matter for congratulation that so many remains of architectural design and craftsmanship are available for study in something approaching their original state.