If Barrow rose from his father’s shop, where he was early initiated in the mysteries of mercer and draper, to wear his well-earned dignity in the Church, there was nothing wonderful in the elevation. The father of our present Archbishop of York kept, at Cambridge, a shop like that of Barrow’s father. One of the most active and useful of the Yorkshire rectors was himself in early life of the craft; and there is no more zealous or efficient missionary in Ireland than the Rev. Mr. Doudney, the brother of the well-known London tailor of that name. In the olden times,—that is, some two centuries ago,—the boy who passed from his father’s shop-board to enter, as a man, the pulpit, was of very High Church principles, if we may take Shadwell’s portrait of Smirk in the ‘Lancashire Witches’ as a faithful portraiture. Smirk is a little given, as Brother Ignatius advises all Roman Catholic servants in Protestant families to be, to inquire into the family secrets, for which his patron, Sir Edward Harfort, to whom he is chaplain, reproves him. The following sharp dialogue then ensues:— “_Smirk._ Consider, Sir, the dignity of my function. _Sir Ed._ Your father is my tailor. You are _my servant_; And do you think a cassock and a girdle Can alter you so much as to enable You (who before were but a coxcomb, Sir) To teach me? _Smirk._ My orders give me authority to speak. A power legantine I have from Heaven. _Sir Ed._ _Show your credentials._ The indiscretion of such paltry fellows Are scandals to the Church and cause they preach for. With furious zeal you press for discipline, With fire and blood maintain your great Diana, Foam at the mouth when a Dissenter’s named, And damn them if they do not love a surplice. _Smirk._ Had I the power I’d make them wear pitcht surplices. _Sir Ed._ Such firebrands as you but hurt the cause. The learned’st and the wisest of your tribe Strive by good life and meekness to o’ercome them.” It is worth recording that this rather high-toned chaplain Smirk, son of Smirk the Tailor, came under the censure and the scissors of the scrupulous Master of the Revels. This delicate official could tolerate the Smirks of Etherege, but when Shadwell exhibited one with something like sincerity dragging after his faults, the whole town, ay, and the court too, cried out _shame_! The wisdom of our ancestors does not appear to match with the assurance which affects to give warranty of it.