But he was unlucky. All the brilliant
young candidates for Ordination must have betaken themselves to
Cuddesdon or Wells or Lichfield that year.
Of the eighteen graduates from Oxford, half took their religion as a hot
bath, the other half as a cold one. Nine resembled the pale young
curates of domestic legend, nine the muscular Christian that is for some
reason attributed to the example of Charles Kingsley. Of the twelve
graduates from Cambridge, six treated religion as a cricket match played
before the man in the street with God as umpire, six regarded it as a
respectable livelihood for young men with normal brains, social
connexions, and weak digestions. The young man from Durham looked upon
religion as a more than respectable livelihood for one who had plenty of
brains, an excellent digestion, and no social connexions whatever.
Mark wondered if the Bishop of Silchester's design in placing him amid
such surroundings was to cure him for ever of moderation. As was his
custom when he was puzzled, he wrote to the Rector.
The Theological College,
Silchester.
All Souls, '03.
My dear Rector,
My first impressions have not undergone much change. The young men
are as good as gold, but oh dear, the gold is the gold of
Mediocritas.
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