nt of
the whole Established Church, makes statesmanship the most important
of all qualifications. Learning, energy, eloquence, piety would none
of them, nor all of them together, make up for the want of calmness
and wisdom. Yet all those qualities are obviously desirable, because
they strengthen as well as adorn the primate's position.

Archibald Campbell Tait (born in Scotland in 1811, died 1882) was
educated at Glasgow University and at Balliol College, Oxford; worked
at his college for some years as a tutor, succeeded Dr. Arnold as
headmaster of Rugby School in 1843, became Dean of Carlisle and then
Bishop of London, and was translated to Canterbury in 1868. It has
been generally understood that Mr. Disraeli, then Prime Minister,
suggested another prelate for the post, but the Queen, who did not
share her minister's estimate of that prelate, expressed a preference
for Tait. Her choice was amply justified, for Tait united, and indeed
possessed in a high degree, the qualifications which have just been
enumerated. He was, if it be not a paradox to say so, more remarkable
as an archbishop than as a man. He had no original power as a thinker.
He was not a striking preacher, and the more pains he took with his
sermons the less interesting did they become. He was so far from being
learned that you could say no more of him than that he was a sound
scholar and a well-informed man. He was deeply and earnestly pious,
but in a quiet, almost dry way, which lacked what is called unction,
though it impressed those who were in close contact with him. He
showed slight interest either in the historical or in the speculative
side of theology. Though a good headmaster, he was not a stimulating
teacher. Had he remained all his life in a subordinate position, as a
college tutor at Oxford, or as canon of some cathedral, he would have
discharged the duties of the position in a thoroughly satisfactory
way, and would have acquired influence among his colleagues, but no
one would have felt that Fate had dealt unfairly with him in depriving
him of some larger career and loftier post. No one, indeed, who knew
him when he was a college tutor seems to have predicted the dignities
he was destined to attain, although he had shown in the theological
strife that then raged at Oxford the courage and independence of his
character.

In what, then, did the secret of his success lie--the secret, that is,
of his acquitting himself so excellently in those