will force a stranger on us, we decide on demurring, the
Prior and his Twelve shall demur: we can appeal, plead, remonstrate;
appeal even to the Pope, but trust it will not be necessary. Then
there is this other question, raised by Brother Samson: What if the
Thirteen should not themselves be able to agree? Brother Samson
_Subsacrista_, one remarks, is ready oftenest with some question, some
suggestion, that has wisdom in it. Though a servant of servants, and
saying little, his words all tell, having sense in them; it seems by
his light mainly that we steer ourselves in this great dimness.

What if the Thirteen should not themselves be able to agree? Speak,
Samson, and advise.--Could not, hints Samson, Six of our venerablest
elders be chosen by us, a kind of electoral committee, here and now:
of these, 'with their hand on the Gospels, with their eye on the
_Sacrosancta_,' we take oath that they will do faithfully; let these,
in secret and as before God, agree on Three whom they reckon fittest;
write their names in a Paper, and deliver the same sealed, forthwith,
to the Thirteen: one of those Three the Thirteen shall fix on, if
permitted. If not permitted, that is to say, if the _Dominus Rex_
force us to demur,--the paper shall be brought back unopened, and
publicly burned, that no man's secret bring him into trouble.

So Samson advises, so we act; wisely, in this and in other crises of
the business. Our electoral committee, its eye on the Sacrosancta, is
soon named, soon sworn; and we, striking-up the Fifth Psalm, '_Verba
mea_,

'Give ear unto my words, O Lord,
My meditation weigh,'

march out chanting, and leave the Six to their work in the Chapter
here. Their work, before long, they announce as finished: they, with
their eye on the Sacrosancta, imprecating the Lord to weigh and
witness their meditation, have fixed on Three Names, and written them
in this Sealed Paper. Let Samson Subsacrista, general servant of the
party, take charge of it. On the morrow morning, our Prior and his
Twelve will be ready to get under way.

This, then, is the ballot-box and electoral winnowing-machine they
have at St. Edmundsbury: a mind fixed on the Thrice Holy, an appeal to
God on high to witness their meditation: by far the best, and indeed
the only good electoral winnowing-machine,--if men have souls in them.
Totally worthless, it is true, and even hideous and poisonous, if men
have no souls. But without soul, alas, what