Provided always that the stammered syl lables of hermits, and the grave chant of monks, and the ecstatic, broken lyrics of Mount Carmel, help to construct for you a song to sing at your innermost Communions, the book will have been worth writing, and you won't grudge the having read it. Anyhow, here it is, a present I'd have liked to give you long ago, at that rather hectic crammer's, or at the shop, or in the tedious camps. But things don't happen, on the whole, until they ought.