comes in, offering him the Archbishopric of Canterbury.  One would like to see how he would take it.  Quietly, I have no doubt.  Long preparation has fitted the man who reaches that position for taking it quietly.  A recent Chancellor publicly stated how he felt, when offered the Great Seal.  His first feeling, that good man said, was of gratification that he had fairly reached the highest reward of the profession to which he had given his life; but the feeling which speedily supplanted that was an overwhelming sense of his responsibility and a grave doubt as to his qualifications.  I have always believed, and sometimes said, that good fortune—­not so great or so sudden as to injure one’s nerves or heart, but kindly and equable—­has a most wholesome effect upon human character.  I believe that the happier a man is, the better and kinder he will be.  The greater part of unamiability, ill-temper, impatience, bitterness, and uncharitableness comes out of unhappiness.  It is because a man is so miserable that he is such a sour, suspicious, fractious, petted creature.  I was amused, this morning, to read in the newspaper an account of a very small incident which befell the new Primate of England on his journey back to London, after being enthroned at Canterbury.  The reporter of that small incident takes occasion to record that the Archbishop had quite charmed his travelling-companions in the railway-carriage by the geniality and kindliness of his manner.  I have no doubt he did.  I am sure he is a truly good Christian man.  But think of what a splendid training for producing geniality and kindliness he has been going through for a great number of years!  Think of the moral influences which have been bearing on him for the last few weeks!  We should all be kindly and genial, if we had the same chance of being so.  But if Dr. Longley had a living of a hundred pounds a year, a fretful, ailing wife, a number of half-fed and half-educated little children, a dirty, miserable house, a bleak country round, and a set of wrong-headed and insolent parishioners to keep straight, I venture to say he would have looked, and been, a very different man in that railway-carriage running up to London.  Instead of the genial smiles that delighted his fellow-travellers, (according to the newspaper-story,) his face would have been sour, and his speech would have been snappish; he would have leaned back in the corner of a second-class carriage, sadly calculating the cost of his journey, and how part of it might be saved by going without any dinner.  Oh, if I found a four-leaved shamrock, I would undertake to make a mighty deal of certain people I know!  I would put an end to their weary schemings to make the ends meet.  I would cut off all those wretched cares which jar miserably on the shaken nerves.  I know the burst of thankfulness and joy that would come, if some dismal load, never to be cast off, were taken away.  And I would take it off.  I would clear up the horrible muddle.  I would make them happy:  and in doing that, I know that I should make them good.