em on. The bulb is an instrument like the brain. You turn on
the power, and there is light. You would not rely upon the passing
machine, when you know the secret of its force. Matter is driven, flesh
is driven, all that answers to the pull of the ground is driven and
changed and broken down and reunited in ever refining forms. That in
your heart--that sleeping one--is dynamic with all that you have been.
Your brain knows only the one. Do not forget your native force, as an
immortal being. You may be workers in magic.

Do not become bewildered by what the world calls good. The world does
not know. Follow the world and in that hour when you have obeyed its
dictates and learned its wants--its taste will change and leave you
nothing. That which the many have chosen is of the many. The voice of
the many is not the voice of God--it is the voice of the temporal and
its destiny is swift mutation.

Nothing greater than the many can come from the ballot of the many; that
is so well learned that its few and startling exceptions but help us to
see the bleakness of the blind choice of the crowd, which conducts us
sometimes to war and invariably to commonness. The few great men who
have touched the seats of the mighty in this or any country--have walked
with God alone against the crowd--until they were given the power to
master their way into authority.

The choice of the many in a political leader is not different from its
choice of a book or a flower or a fabric. A low vibration is demanded.

26

THE ROSE CHAPTER

I remember the February day in Chapel when the winter first became
irksome. It had settled down in mid-November and been steady and
old-fashioned. The little girl opened the matter. Winter had become a
tiresome lid upon her beloved Nature--a white lid that had been on quite
long enough. She had not let us forget the open weather much, for her
talk and her essays had to do with growing days invariably.... The Abbot
began to talk of Spring. Spring had also appeared in his paper, though
outside there was two feet of steely frost in the ground.... Memories of
other Springs began to consume us that day. We talked of buds and bugs
and woodland places--of the gardens we would make presently.

"When roses began to come out for me the first time," said the old man,
"I sort of lost interest in the many flowers. I saw a rose-garden and
little beside--vines, of course. I know men who fall like this into the
iris, the