Now, be it always remembered, Frank Headley was a good man, in every sense of the word.  He had nothing, save the outside, in common with those undesirable coxcombs, who have not been bred by the High Church movement, but have taken refuge in its cracks, as they would have done forty years ago in those of the Evangelical,—­youths who hide their crass ignorance and dulness under the cloak of Church infallibility, and having neither wit, manners, learning, humanity, or any other dignity whereon to stand, talk loud, pour pis aller, about the dignity of the priesthood.  Such men Frank had met at neighbouring clerical meetings, overbearing and out-talking the elder and the wiser members; and finding that he got no good from them, had withdrawn into his parish-work, to eat his own heart, like Bellerophon of old.  For Frank was a gentleman and a Christian, if ever one there was.  Delicate in person, all but consumptive; graceful and refined in all his works and ways; a scholar, elegant rather than deep, yet a scholar still; full of all love for painting, architecture, and poetry, he had come down to bury himself in this remote curacy, in the honest desire of doing good.  He had been a curate in a fashionable London Church; but finding the atmosphere thereof not over wholesome to his soul, he had had the courage to throw off St. Nepomuc’s, its brotherhoods, sisterhoods, and all its gorgeous and highly-organised appliances for enabling five thousand rich to take tolerable care of five hundred poor:  and had fled from “the holy virgins” (as certain old ladies, who do twice their work with half their noise, call them) into the wilderness of Bethnal Green.  But six months’ gallant work there, with gallant men (for there are High Churchmen there who are an honour to England), brought him to death’s door.  The doctors commanded some soft western air.  Frank, as chivalrous as a knight-errant of old, would fain have died at his post, but his mother interfered; and he could do no less than obey her.  So he had taken this remote west country curacy; all the more willingly because he knew that nine-tenths of the people were Dissenters.  To recover that place to the Church would be something worth living for.  So he had come, and laboured late and early; and behold, he had failed utterly; and seemed farther than ever from success.  He had opened, too hastily, a crusade against the Dissenters, and denounced where he should have conciliated.  He had overlooked—­indeed he hardly knew—­the sad truth, that the mere fact of his being a clergyman was no passport to the hearts of his people.  For the curate who preceded him had been an old man, mean, ignorant, incapable, remaining there simply because nobody else would have him, and given to brandy-and-water as much as his flock.