Subject therefore to the two minor, but still not inconsiderable, defects I have named, Parliament conforms itself accurately enough, both as a chooser of executives and as a legislature, to the formed opinion of the country.  Similarly, and subject to the same exceptions, it expresses the nation’s opinion in words well, when it happens that words, not laws, are wanted.  On foreign matters, where we cannot legislate, whatever the English nation thinks, or thinks it thinks, as to the critical events of the world, whether in Denmark, in Italy, or America, and no matter whether it thinks wisely or unwisely, that same something, wise or unwise, will be thoroughly well said in Parliament.  The lyrical function of Parliament, if I may use such a phrase, is well done; it pours out in characteristic words the characteristic heart of the nation.  And it can do little more useful.  Now that free government is in Europe so rare and in America so distant, the opinion, even the incomplete, erroneous, rapid opinion of the free English people is invaluable.  It may be very wrong, but it is sure to be unique; and if it is right it is sure to contain matter of great magnitude, for it is only a first-class matter in distant things which a free people ever sees or learns.  The English people must miss a thousand minutiae that continental bureaucracies know even too well; but if they see a cardinal truth which those bureaucracies miss, that cardinal truth may greatly help the world.

But if in these ways, and subject to these exceptions, Parliament by its policy and its speech well embodies and expresses public opinion, I own I think it must be conceded that it is not equally successful in elevating public opinion.  The teaching task of Parliament is the task it does worst.  Probably at this moment, it is natural to exaggerate this defect.  The greatest teacher of all in Parliament, the head-master of the nation, the great elevator of the country—­so far as Parliament elevates it—­must be the Prime Minister:  he has an influence, an authority, a facility in giving a great tone to discussion, or a mean tone, which no other man has.  Now Lord Palmerston for many years steadily applied his mind to giving, not indeed a mean tone, but a light tone, to the proceedings of Parliament.  One of his greatest admirers has since his death told a story of which he scarcely sees, or seems to see, the full effect.  When Lord Palmerston was first made leader of the House, his jaunty manner was not at all popular, and some predicted failure.  “No,” said an old member, “he will soon educate us down to his level; the House will soon prefer this Ha!  Ha! style to the wit of Canning and the gravity of Peel.”  I am afraid that we must own that the prophecy was accomplished.  No Prime Minister, so popular and so influential, has ever left in the public memory so little noble teaching.  Twenty years hence, when men inquire as to the then fading memory of Palmerston, we shall