Such is the buzz and frothy simmering ferment of the general mind
and no-mind; struggling to `make itself up,' as the phrase is,
or ascertain what _it_ does really want: no easy matter, in most
cases. St. Edmundsbury, in that Candlemas season of the year
1182, is a busily fermenting place. The very clothmakers sit
meditative at their looms; asking, Who shall be Abbot? The
_sochemanni_ speak of it, driving their ox-teams afield; the old
women with their spindles: and none yet knows what the days will
bring forth.


The Prior, however, as our interim chief, must proceed to work;
get ready 'Twelve Monks,' and set off with them to his Majesty at
Waltham, there shall the election be made. An election, whether
managed directly by ballot-box on public hustings, or indirectly
by force of public opinion, or were it even by open alehouses,
landlords' coercion, popular club-law, or whatever electoral
methods, is always an interesting phenomenon. A mountain
tumbling in great travail, throwing up dustclouds and absurd
noises, is visibly there; uncertain yet what mouse or monster it
will give birth to.

Besides it is a most important social act; nay, at bottom, the
one important social act. Given the men a People choose, the
People itself, in its exact worth and worthlessness, is given. A
heroic people chooses heroes, and is happy; a valet or flunkey
people chooses sham-heroes, what are called quacks, thinking them
heroes, and is not happy. The grand summary of a man's spiritual
condition, what brings out all his herohood and insight, or all
his flunkeyhood and horn-eyed dimness, is this question put to