pursuit of extraordinary things, what is he to do? His great advantages over meaner artists will infallibly lie by, mouldering away through disease, and he must content himself with a contest of little value, mere matters of execution."

He laments, like a greater man, that he has come an hour too late, and fallen on evil and ignorant times, when common transcripts of nature and fine colours were triumphing over historic art; and he imputes the discouragement of native works of genius to the admiration of all that is of foreign growth-to the ignorant enthusiasm of the rich, who, while pouring out their money and their praise on the rubbish and offal of the easel, devoutly believed they were buying and worshipping Raphael, Titian, and Correggio. His words are strong, and near the truth. "Artful men, both at home and abroad, have not failed to avail themselves of this passion for ancient art, as it afforded a fine coverlet for imposition-for vending in the names of those great masters, the old copies, imitations, and studies of all the obscure artists that have been working in Italy, Flanders, and other places for two hundred years past. These things are to be had in great plenty, and may be, as I have often known at Rome, baptized first thoughts,'' second thoughts, with alterations,' duplicates,' and what not. It would be endless to give an account of all the various ways in which our antiquaries and picture-dealers, both at home and abroad, carry on the business of imposition. The Pope and the States of Venice, and other Italian communities, have set their seals upon all pictures worth keeping, and not one can be moved by means of either

persuasion or bribery. This ill-fated country of ours is therefore crammed with nothing but rubbish from abroad, and our artists at home must necessarily, to avoid risking the displeasure of their patrons, favour this mockery and cheat put upon them. The absurd abuse of our love of art is the disgrace of our country and age; it has long lain like a dead weight upon the loins of national improvement."

The audacious honesty of this eminent man conspired against his success in art: he talked and wrote down the impressions of his pencil. Having satirized the great dry-nurses of British art, whose cold and ungenial bosoms froze infant excellence to death, he thus handles the living painters themselves. "There are, to be sure, but few artists whose personal interests happen to be embarked in the same bottom with the dignity of the art, and consequently with the interests of the public; but there are a few; and as for the many, who have no part in this exertion of superior art, they ought in conscience to content themselves with the greater profits which in this commercial country must ever follow the practice of the lower branches, especially as they cannot expect to keep up for ever the false weight and importance which they have assumed in consequence of those greater gettings. It is therefore to be hoped that they will no longer find it practicable to play the part of the dog in the manger as they have hitherto done; for indeed a great many of the blocks and impediments thrown in the way of superior art, have been owing to the secret workings and machinations of those interested men.

All this added new enemies to the old; nor am I sure that Barry's limited theory of excellence in art is at all just. Scenes of historic or religious grandeur ought no more to retain the exclusive monopoly of the pencil, than of the pen. The poetry of the nation has given an echo to every cord of feeling. The love of woman, and the courage of man, look hardly less beautiful in the minstrel's humble song, than in the loftiest epic. We grow satiated with the clangor of the trumpet, and long for the breathing of the lute; and were the whole earth planted with roses of Sharon and lillies of the valley, such is the desire of human nature for wariety that we would grow weary of walking amidst perfume, and sigh for the thistle and the daisy, the harebell and the heather. The monotony which the artist recommends, though a monotony of excellence, would tire us at last. We would long for humbler things-for scenes in which all could sympathize-for fireside looks and familiar faces.

Having disposed of all inferior painters, cunning connoisseurs and tricky antiquarians, he turned to the religion of the land, with some bitterness. "Where religion," says he, "is affirmative and extended, it gives a loose and an enthusiasm to man's fancy, which throws a spirit into the air and manners, and stamps a diversity, life-quickness, sensibility, and expressive significance, over every thing they do. In another place, religion is more negative and contented: being formed in direct opposition to the first, its measures are regulated accordingly: much pains are taken to root out and remove every thing that gives wing to

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the imagination, and so to regulate the outward man by a torpid inanimate composure, gravity and indifference, that it may attend to nothing but the mere acts of necessity, every thing else being reputed idle and vain. Men so formed had as few words as buttons; the tongue spoke almost without moving the lips; and the circumstances of a murder were related with as little emotion as an ordinary mercantile transaction. Some kinds of religion appear to be the graves of art, of genius, of sensibility, and of all the finer and more spiritual parts of the human faculties: other religions have been the nurse and the mother of them; they have embraced all the arts: poetry, painting, music, architecture, and every effort of ingenuity were employed in giving a force and a furtherance to their views."

Barry looked upon the Pope as a President, and upon the Romish church as the Queen of Academies. To an ardent proselyte of the Catholic system, painting appeared a lawful auxiliary; and as an artist he was willing to believe it a most efficient one: but he spoke like a painter, though he spoke with much knowledge, for he had considered every subject which art either aids or adorns.

Dissertations on the fine arts were uncommon; popular affection had not been so fully awakened as to enable the multitude to understand and feel the importance of this memorable work. It had the repulsive aspect of a controversial treatise; and was coldly received by all, save a coterie of artists and antiquarians, who were stung by its satiric energy. I am afraid I must impute to this

production, in some degree at least, the ultimate estrangement of his best and greatest friend. It was no longer" My dear Barry" and your "faithful friend, Edmund Burke:" correspondence was carried on through the frosty medium of the third person, and there was now no overflowing warmth either of affection or advice. A sort of diplomatic civility took the place of kindness; and Barry had to learn the melancholy task of addressing an old and tried friend in the language of mere acquaintance. To continue on intimate terms with one so fierce of nature, it was necessary to become his partizan: he expected those who loved him should share his griefs, and resent whatever he thought worthy of resentment. To become Barry's friend, was like being a second in a duel of old, when both principals and seconds drew their swords and fought the quarrel out. Into disputes with a rich and influential body of men, Burke was likely to be slow in precipitating himself: he felt that his friend Reynolds was a sufferer from the pen and tongue of Barry, and he was glad to retire to such a distance as gave him the power to remain neuter in these unhappy contests. Intercourse, both personally and by letter, continued between them: it never more resumed the affectionate cordiality of earlier years.

A gradual change had taken place both in the person and the temper of Barry. He neglected his dress, lived sullenly and alone, and held intercourse with few of those men who influence the fame and fortune of artists. He seemed ever in a reverie, out of which he was unwilling to be roused. The history of his life is the tale of