The only thing that kindles a mild phosphorescence, a
dim luminousness as of a bedside match-tray in the dark, in their
eyes is when they hear of somebody's what they call conspicuous
moderation. I suppose every deacon carries a bishop's apron in his
sponge-bag or an archbishop's crosier among his golf-clubs. But in
this lot I simply cannot perceive even an embryonic archdeacon. I
rather expected when I came here that I should be up against men of
brains and culture. I was looking forward to being trampled on by
ruthless logicians. I hoped that latitudinarian opinions were going
to make my flesh creep and my hair stand on end. But nothing of the
kind. I've always got rather angry when I've read caricatures of
curates in books with jokes about goloshes and bath-buns. Yet
honestly, half my fellows might easily serve as models to any
literary cheapjack of the moment. I'm willing to admit that
probably most of them will develop under the pressure of life, but
a few are bound to remain what they are. I know we get some
eccentrics and hotheads and a few sensual knaves among the Catholic
clergy, but we do not get these anaemic creatures. I feel that
before I came here I knew nothing about the Church of England.
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