Moses used to go up on a mountain, clear above the clouds, beyond where the mists hover, and when he came down the people asked him what he had been up there for, and he told them he went up to see God. In no other way could Moses control this restless mob except by saying God says so and so. And the fact that their leader was on such good terms with Elohim or Yoveh, inflated these people so that they always spoke of themselves as “the Chosen People of God.” The Jebusites, the Hittites and the Moabites never referred to the Israelites as the Chosen People of God. No one called them the Chosen People of God—only they themselves. And I wish to say right here that the individual who does a great and magnificent work _is_ on close and friendly terms with God. He _is_ the Son of God, and it is necessary that he should feel this kinship in order to do his work. From Moses, the called of God, on up to Socrates, who listened to the Dæmon, to George Fox, who hearkened to the Voice, to the Prophets of our own time, all lie low in the Lord’s hand and listen closely ere they act. A man is strong only when he feels that he is backed by a Power, not his own, that makes for Righteousness. When I think of these brave souls, the Saviours of the World, who have sought to lead men out of the captivity of evil—feeling and knowing that they were the Sons of God—I stand uncovered. But a mass of people—a crowd, a mob—that claims to be a “Chosen People” is a sight to make angels weep. “You cannot indict a class” said Macaulay; corporations have no souls, and a horde that claims to be inspired is only a howling cowardly Thing. Great men are ever lonely and live apart, but birds of a feather flock together because they fear to flock alone. They want warmth and protection—they are afraid. A mob is the quintessence of cowardice—a dirty, mad, hydra-headed monster, that one good valiant St. George can thrust to the heart. When a mob speaks I say: Vox populi vox Devil! At the time the Israelites tumbled in pell-mell onto the Philistines Moses had long been dead. The mob was without a leader and quarrel was rife amid its broken ranks. In a mad rush they stampeded the herds of the Philistines, scattered their flocks, destroyed their gardens, and as excuse they shouted: We are the Chosen People of God!! And one of their Poets sang a song, two lines of which runs thus: _Moab is my wash-pot,_ _Over Philistia will I cast my shoe._ This only made the Philistines laugh, and although the Israelites outnumbered them, they went at it and scattered them. Finally after long years of warfare, the fight was called a draw, and the Jews settled down and following the good example of the Philistines made themselves homes.