be able to point to no great truth which he taught, no great distinct policy which he embodied, no noble words which once fascinated his age, and which, in after years, men would not willingly let die.  But we shall be able to say “he had a genial manner, a firm, sound sense; he had a kind of cant of insincerity, but we always knew what he meant; he had the brain of a ruler in the clothes of a man of fashion”.  Posterity will hardly understand the words of the aged reminiscent, but we now feel their effect.  The House of Commons, since it caught its tone from such a statesman, has taught the nation worse, and elevated it less, than usual.

I think, however, that a correct observer would decide that in general, and on principle, the House of Commons does not teach the public as much as it might teach it, or as the public would wish to learn.  I do not wish very abstract, very philosophical, very hard matters to be stated in Parliament.  The teaching there given must be popular, and to be popular it must be concrete, embodied, short.  The problem is to know the highest truth which the people will bear, and to inculcate and preach that.  Certainly Lord Palmerston did not preach it.  He a little degraded us by preaching a doctrine just below our own standard—­a doctrine not enough below us to repel us much, but yet enough below to harm us by augmenting a worldliness which needed no addition, and by diminishing a love of principle and philosophy which did not want deduction.

In comparison with the debates of any other assembly, it is true the debates by the English Parliament are most instructive.  The debates in the American Congress have little teaching efficacy; it is the characteristic vice of Presidential government to deprive them of that efficacy; in that government a debate in the legislature has little effect, for it cannot turn out the executive, and the executive can veto all it decides.  The French Chambers [Footnote:  This of course relates to the assemblies of the Empire.] are suitable appendages to an Empire which desires the power of despotism without its shame; they prevent the enemies of the Empire being quite correct when they say there is no free speech; a few permitted objectors fill the air with eloquence, which every one knows to be often true, and always vain.  The debates in an English Parliament fill a space in the world which, in these auxiliary chambers, is not possible.  But I think any one who compares the discussions on great questions in the higher part of the press, with the discussions in Parliament, will feel that there is (of course amid much exaggeration and vague ness) a greater vigour and a higher meaning in the writing than in the speech:  a vigour which the public appreciate—­a meaning that they like to hear.