The first prerequisite of elective government is the mutual confidence of the electors.  We are so accustomed to submit to be ruled by elected Ministers, that we are apt to fancy all mankind would readily be so too.  Knowledge and civilisation have at least made this progress, that we instinctively, without argument, almost without consciousness, allow a certain number of specified persons to choose our rulers for us.  It seems to us the simplest thing in the world.  But it is one of the gravest things.

The peculiar marks of semi-barbarous people are diffused distrust and indiscriminate suspicion.  People, in all but the most favoured times and places, are rooted to the places where they were born, think the thoughts of those places, can endure no other thoughts.  The next parish even is suspected.  Its inhabitants have different usages, almost imperceptibly different, but yet different; they speak a varying accent; they use a few peculiar words; tradition says that their faith is dubious.  And if the next parish is a little suspected, the next county is much more suspected.  Here is a definite beginning of new maxims, new thoughts, new ways:  the immemorial boundary mark begins in feeling a strange world.  And if the next county is dubious, a remote county is untrustworthy.  “Vagrants come from thence,” men know, and they know nothing else.  The inhabitants of the north speak a dialect different from the dialect of the south:  they have other laws, another aristocracy, another life.  In ages when distant territories are blanks in the mind, when neighbourhood is a sentiment, when locality is a passion, concerted co-operation between remote regions is impossible even on trivial matters.  Neither would rely enough upon the good faith, good sense, and good judgment of the other.  Neither could enough calculate on the other.

And if such co-operation is not to be expected in trivial matters, it is not to be thought of in the most vital matter of government—­ the choice of the executive ruler.  To fancy that Northumberland in the thirteenth century would have consented to ally itself with Somersetshire for the choice of a chief magistrate is absurd; it would scarcely have allied itself to choose a hangman.  Even now, if it were palpably explained, neither district would like it.  But no one says at a county election, “The object of this present meeting is to choose our delegate to what the Americans call the ’Electoral College,’ to the assembly which names our first magistrate—­our substitute for their President.  Representatives from this county will meet representatives from other counties, from cities and boroughs, and proceed to choose our rulers.”  Such bald exposition would have been impossible in old times; it would be considered queer, eccentric, if it were used now.  Happily, the process of election is so indirect and hidden, and the introduction of that process was so gradual and latent, that we scarcely perceive the immense political trust we repose in each other.  The best mercantile credit seems to those who give it, natural, simple, obvious; they do not argue about it, or think about it.  The best political credit is analogous; we trust our countrymen without remembering that we trust them.