"I would remind me of many things. Half do I remember--yet the lytell things only. The greate ones (stick) even as I myself stuck in the portal by reason of their trick, and Johannes, as once before, cannot rayse themme and lies beneath their weight. I wold explain but must gaine strength.... "I was ever soe: of a merry heart, when like to melte in tears. So was I made. It was not my fault. Light of thought, save the thoughts I could not speak; and the light jests comme again to me. Glad soule! Had I but turned my soul to the things that were greate, I should not be now a child among the toys. But I was never meant to be a monk. They placed me here in choro, when I would have drawn the sword...." EXTRACT FROM SCRIPT OBTAINED 15TH SEPTEMBER, 1912. "But one waiteth, even Johannes, whose body, scattered to the winds of Heaven, once lay in the cemetery of the monks, hard by the east side of the Chapel of St. Michael in the midst of the graveyard. What matter? He lives yet in the universal Memory, and speaks and acts through every channel in which the Universal Life flows. "Yet when he is himself, he speaks well, as he was wont in the rude times that are as yesterday." In these brief yet pregnant passages the author's philosophy is brought to a focus. Humbling the arrogance of the individual mind, because it denies that the mere mechanism of the human brain can ever _originate_ idea, it yet raises the little limited self to the consciousness of a possibility, awful and beautiful, of a contact with something greater than itself, and yet akin; and to the dignity of a mystical fellowship in which isolation ends, and Past and Present are seen as parts of a living whole; points in the circumference of a circle whose radius is Life beyond these limitations. Our little mechanism we may attune to respond to the needs, the pleasures, and the interests of our own fragmentary span; or, disdaining these, we may harmonise it to the thought which is pictured on the great outward sweep of the circle of Memory, recorded there by the lives of those of far distant times. Then will these records live again for us and through the gates of our soul will pour, from the living source of Idea, their ordered recollections. Not by our own power, but through the unseen Gate of the subconscious mind, will these memories link themselves with ours--not through the evocation of the "spirit" of Johannes, but by the power of the Universal Spirit, whose life permeates all the regions of Time, and in Whom we and Johannes, and all who are in mental kinship with his thought, are as one. THE GARGOYLE.