that elite may confide in.  It acknowledges as its secondary electors—­as the choosers of its government—­an educated minority, at once competent and unresisted; it has a kind of loyalty to some superior persons who are fit to choose a good government, and whom no other class opposes.  A nation in such a happy state as this has obvious advantages for constructing a Cabinet government.  It has the best people to elect a legislature, and therefore it may fairly be expected to choose a good legislature—­a legislature competent to select a good administration.

England is the type of deferential countries, and the manner in which it is so, and has become so, is extremely curious.  The middle classes—­the ordinary majority of educated men—­are in the present day the despotic power in England.  “Public opinion,” nowadays, “is the opinion of the bald-headed man at the back of the omnibus.”  It is not the opinion of the aristocratical classes as such; or of the most educated or refined classes as such; it is simply the opinion of the ordinary mass of educated, but still commonplace mankind.  If you look at the mass of the constituencies, you will see that they are not very interesting people; and perhaps if you look behind the scenes and see the people who manipulate and work the constituencies, you will find that these are yet more uninteresting.  The English constitution in its palpable form is this—­the mass of the people yield obedience to a select few; and when you see this select few, you perceive that though not of the lowest class, nor of an unrespectable class, they are yet of a heavy sensible class—­the last people in the world to whom, if they were drawn up in a row, an immense nation would ever give an exclusive preference.

In fact, the mass of the English people yield a deference rather to something else that to their rulers.  They defer to what we may call the theatrical show of society.  A certain state passes before them; a certain pomp of great men; a certain spectacle of beautiful women; a wonderful scene of wealth and enjoyment is displayed, and they are coerced by it.  Their imagination is bowed down; they feel they are not equal to the life which is revealed to them.  Courts and aristocracies have the great quality which rules the multitude, though philosophers can see nothing in it—­visibility.  Courtiers can do what others cannot.  A common man may as well try to rival the actors on the stage in their acting, as the aristocracy in their acting.  The higher world, as it looks from without, is a stage on which the actors walk their parts much better than the spectators can.  This play is played in every district.  Every rustic feels that his house is not like my lord’s house; his life like my lord’s life; his wife like my lady.  The climax of the play is the Queen:  nobody supposes that their house is like the court; their life like her life; her orders like their orders.  There is in England