_`Dixit quidam de quodam,_ A certain person said of a certain person, "He, that _Frater,_ is a good monk, _probabilis persona;_ knows much of the order and customs of the church; and though not so perfect a philosopher as some others, would make a very good Abbot. Old Abbot Ording, still famed among us, knew little of letters. Besides, as we read in Fables, it is better to choose a log for king, than a serpent, never so wise, that will venomously hiss and bite his subjects."--"Impossible!" answered the other: "How can such a man make a sermon in the chapter, or to the people on festival days, when he is without letters? How can he have the skill to bind and to loose, he who does not understand the Scriptures? How--?"' And then `another said of another, _alius de alio,_ "That _Frater_ is a _homo literatus,_ eloquent, sagacious; vigorous in discipline; loves the Convent much, has suffered much for its sake." To which a third party answers, "From all your great clerks good Lord deliver us! From Norfolk barrators, and surly persons, That it would please thee to preserve us, We beseech thee to hear us, good Lord!"' Then `another _quidam_ said of another _quodam,_ "That _Frater_ is a good manager (_husebondus_);" but was swiftly answered, "God forbid that a man who can neither read nor chant, nor celebrate the divine offices, an unjust person withal, and grinder of the faces of the poor, should ever be Abbot!"' One man, it appears, is nice in his victuals. Another is indeed wise; but apt to slight inferiors; hardly at the pains to answer, if they argue with him too foolishly. And so each _aliquis_ concerning his _aliquo,_-- through whole pages of electioneering babble. `For,' says Jocelin, `So many men, as many minds. Our Monks at time of blood-letting, _tempore minutionis,_' holding their sanhedrim of babble, would talk in this manner: Brother Samson, I remarked, never said anything; sat silent, sometimes smiling; but he took good note of what others said, and would bring it up, on occasion, twenty years after. As for me Jocelin, I was of opinion that `some skill in Dialectics, to distinguish true from false,' would be good in an Abbot. I spake, as a rash Novice in those days, some conscientious words of a certain benefactor of mine; `and behold, one of those sons of Belial' ran and reported them to him, so that he never after looked at me with the same face again! Poor Bozzy!-- 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.