putes with the lightness of a sailor: she, in her turn, committed her son to the care and conversation of two Catholic priests, who, to learning, added the zeal which thirsts for proselytes-and that enthusiasm which, directed with prudence against the youthful and the imaginative, is sure to triumph. He was artfully involved in the mazes of religious controversy, and had to seek his way out in the company of those who coveted his conversion-other temptations were held out, of notice and preferment, and he was soon hailed as a stray sheep won back to the fold. A report was diligently circulated, that his learning and talents were to be dedicated to the service of the suffering church; but as soon as he had openly committed himself as a Catholic, his nomination to the priesthood was heard of no more.

To the Romish church he was much attached in youth, but his residence in Rome made him waver not a little. There he saw more than he wished to have seen, and was about to seek refuge from superstition in infidelity, when he was saved, as he always acknowledged, by a book sent to him by Edmund Burke. The work which did this good deed was that precious one-"Butler's Analogy of Religion, natural and revealed, to the constitution and course of nature." In after-life he rewarded the author by placing him high among those divines whom he admitted into his painting of Elysium. But he was far too ardent and unbalanced to remain steady at the wholesome point of belief where Bishop Butler had left him. He became, as life advanced and vexations thickened, a blind and bigoted follower of the creed of Rome, and somewhat stern and uncharitable towards those who differed from him in matters of faith: but we are anticipating.

When he was some twelve or fifteen years oldtradition is no accurate observer of dates-a bookseller in Cork had such confidence in his powers, that he employed him to make the designs-some

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add the etchings-for a small volume of tales which he was publishing. Of these, if they ever existed, no account is given, and the book has been sought for in vain; nor, indeed, is there any precise information to be had concerning the subjects which employed his boyish pencil: he probably retained his sketches till ripening judgment condemned them, and then committed to the fire those witnesses of an undisciplined hand and an ill-regulated fancy. He had no one to guide him in art as he had to mislead him in religion-he had to grope his own way to excellence, and attain it as he best might. We know that ere he left Cork, he had painted in oil colour, "Eneas escaping from the burning of Troy," -"A dead Christ,"" Susanna and the Elders," "Daniel in the Lions' Den,”—and “Abraham's Sacrifice;" but whether these were copies or original compositions it is not mentioned. Such subjects are frequently chosen by young and presumptuous men, who imagine that it is grand and daring to single out a sublime or splendid scene from history or poetry-they have yet to learn, and they will soon discover it, that a lofty subject requires to be as nobly handled. Those early attempts of Barry were long afterward to be seen on the walls of his father's house.

His name had not yet been heard of beyond Cork; it was soon to be known in remote parts, and received with a favour which must have fallen on Barry like a shower upon a summer drought. There is a tradition in the Irish Church concerning the conversion of a king of Cashel by the eloquence of St. Patrick. The barbarian prince, when the apostle concluded his exhortation, called loudly to be bap tized, and such was the hurry of the one, and the fortitude of the other, that though the Saint, im planting his iron-shod crozier in the ground, struck it unwittingly through the royal convert's foot, he uttered not one murmur, nor yet moved a muscle

but conceiving it to be a part of the ceremony, stood and was baptized. "The moment of baptism,” says Dr. Fryer, "rendered so critical and awful by the circumstance of the king's foot being pierced with the spear, is that which Mr. Barry chose for the display of his art; and few stories, it is presumed, have been selected with greater felicity, or with greater scope for the skill and ingenuity of the artist. The heroic patience of the king, the devo tional abstraction of the saint, and the mixed emotions of the spectators, form a combined and comprehensive model of imitation, and convey a suitable idea of the genius of one, who, self-instructed, and at nineteen, conceived the execution of so grand a design."

With this work in his hand, Barry went to Dublin, and placed it among the paintings collecting for exhibition by the Society for the encouragement of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce. He was at this time utterly unfriended and unknown, coarsely clad, and with something of the stamp of one enduring poverty upon him. The picture was ex hibited and admired; but so little was such a work expected from a native artist, that when the name of the painter was demanded, and he stept modestly forward, no one would believe him-his brow glowed, he burst into tears, and hurried out of the room. All this was observed by Edmund Burke, one of the greatest and best-hearted of all the sons of genius. He sought the young artist out, commended and encouraged him, laid down the natural rules of composition, and directed his attention to what was pure and poetical. One of those incidents which biographers love to relate, and the world indulgently believes, is said to have happened at the very first interview between those two youthful adventurers. They had plunged into controversy in the first hour of their friendship, and Barry, in aid of his argument, quoted a passage from the

Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, then published without the author's name. Burke refused to bow to the authority of a performance which he called slight and unsubstantial, and the fiery Barry exclaimed, "Do you call that a slight and unsubstantial work which is conceived in the spirit of nature and truth-is written with such elegance, and strewn all over with the richness of poetic fancy? I could not afford to buy the work, sir, and transcribed it every word with my own hand." Burke smiled, and acknowledged himself the author. "Are you, by God!" exclaimed Barry, embracing him, and holding out the copy which he had made of the work. Such is the story. Burke was well known to be the author, and enjoyed the reputation of the Essay, before his name was attached to it; and if Barry had taken the trouble to transcribe the work, it does not seem likely that he should have carried the copy in his pocket. Still, we must not too rashly apply to such a person the rules by which we are entitled to judge in matters concerning the ordinary brethren of the race.

He continued to reside for some time in Dublin. The way to fame, and perhaps fortune, lay open before him. Burke had praised his works, and assured him of his protection, and he had only to walk circumspectly, and act with prudence, to become an honour to his native land. Dr. Sleigh, of Cork, an early and benevolent friend, congratulating him on having met with that countenance in Dublin which he had sought and merited in vain in his native city, counselled a journey to Rome, and the study of Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton. This was not lost on Barry. "To Dr. Sleigh," he used to say, "I am indebted for whatever education and fortune and fame I may have in the world." Sudden success unsettled him for a time; the fame of his work brought a crowd of those unsafe companions who clap their hands at the sight of a new favourite

of fortune, and flutter about the prodigy like moths round a candle. In their company he sometimes forgot himself; he was sensible of the folly, and on his way home from a deep carouse, determined on immediate amendment. This fit of repentance found him at the side of the Liffy; he stood and upbraided his own easiness of temper, and cursed the money in his pocket as a fiend that had tempted him to the tavern. He threw his purse into the river, ran home, and resumed his interrupted studies. He afterward related this to an outspoken friend. “Ah, Barry! man," said he, "you threw away your luck-you never had either gold or good temper to spare afterward."

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In his twenty-third year he went to London, on the invitation of Burke, who introduced him to Athenian Stuart, whose talk confirmed him in his love of the ancients, and to Sir Joshua Reynolds, in whose works he studied delicacy of style, propriety of character, and force of light and shade. "If I should chance to have genius, or any thing else," he observes, in a letter to Dr. Sleigh, "it is so much the better; but my hopes are grounded upon an unwearied intense application, of which I am sparing. At present, I have little to show that I value; my work is all under ground, digging and laying foundations, which, with God's assistance, I may hereafter find the use of. I every day centre more and more upon the art; I give myself totally to it: and, except honour and conscience, am deter mined to renounce every thing else. Though this may appear enthusiastic, or rather extravagant, it is really the state of my mind." Nothing great can ever be accomplished without enthusiasm; but it requires to be a little better regulated than poor Barry's. For the most part his notions of other men's talents were at this early period equally decided and just. "The colouring of Wilson is very masterly," he observes, in one of his letters, "his