yet familiarly known. But the heathen gods on Barry's canvass appealed to no popular sympathyto no national belief-to no living superstition: the mob marvelled what they meant, and the learned had little to say.

Some kind and clever friend perceived this public apathy, and endeavoured to supply a stimulus in the Morning Post. He classed the "Jupiter and Juno" with the high historical works, and claimed for Barry a large portion of the genius necessary for elevating British art. Of the great artists of Italy he says justly, "Poetry warmed their imagination; history informed them of facts, and philosophy taught them causes; they felt the uses derived from these studies, and knew that a more thorough knowledge only enables a man to think more justly. Possessed of great natural powers, and having thus cultivated them, they did not fearfully hesitate and observe only through the medium of another man's prejudices, but boldly and independently exerted their own faculties-they made use of their own eyes to see-their own imaginations to conceive with, and were regulated by their own informed judgments and fixed upon a ground so firm, their works were sublime, just, and original." But those great painters did one thing and Barry did another. They, like the Greeks before them, set their imaginations to work upon subjects for which there was a market-Religion called art to her aid, and the most eloquent of Romish divines never illustrated her legends with the spirit and grandeur of this auxiliary. To this view of the subject, Barry obstinately shut his eyes, and fared accordingly. Those who disliked his "Jupiter and Juno," dwelt upon incorrect drawing and defective colouring. In a work appealing more directly to the public feeling, a work of half the talent would have obtained high praise.

The "Adam and Eve," which he painted in Italy, and finished in London, could not be objected to on

these grounds. But the subject, simple as it seems, exacts more from art than art can readily bestow. To imagine two beings new created and pure, and fresh from the hand of the Almighty fashioner, requires the "faculty divine" of a Milton; and to embody in lineament and colours this more than mortal vision, would ask the hand of a Raphael. It was the misfortune of Barry to choose subjects of surpassing beauty, where success was the most difficult, and failure sure to be the most injurious.

We may guess how he felt on this somewhat cold reception of works which he had more than insinuated would bring back the art of antique historic painting among us. We know what he did--he left Olympus and the bowers of Eden, and painted the "Death of Wolfe in the battle of Quebec." While he was busy with this picture, the whisper spread that he had seen the error of his ways, and, in short, forsaken classic severity of character, and poetic freedom of costume, for the actual faces and dresses of the day. It was at length finished and exhibited. A combat of naked men astonished the multitude, who knew all the regiments engaged, and the cut of their regimentals. It was neither a poetic interpretation of the fight, nor an historical illustration, but a sort of mixture of both, hastily conceived and indifferently executed, and only redeemed from contempt by the sentiment of heroism, which triumphed in the looks of the expiring general. In subjects of a poetic nature, fancy may clothe as she pleases her own progeny; but in historic productions, the time and the people must be expressed. The soldiers of George II. might as well have been represented fighting those of Louis XV. on elephant's backs, as in the nakedness of the Lapitha. Barry, who had shortly before been elected an Associate of the Royal Academy, was so much offended with the way in which this picture was hung or talked about by his brethren, that he never sent another work to their exhibition.

Poverty was now a sore enemy to his peace-the munificence of Burke maintained him at Rome, but now the means of life were to be raised by his pencil, and on nothing that his pencil produced had patronage as yet smiled. His parents, with whom his correspondence seems to have been but casual, were not in a condition to render him assistance. Dr. Sleigh, his early friend, was dead. The ungainliness of his manners, the caustic sharpness of his remarks,, and his sudden resentments repelled those who were willing to serve him. He listened to the good counsel of Burke with growing impatience-nor was he long in making even that friend of friends feel the fierceness of his nature.

He had always professed a strong aversion to portrait-painting: some ascribed this to envy of Reynolds, others to his own want of skill in that line of art; and Dr. Brocklesby, wishing to break the spell, requested Burke to sit to Barry. Barry agreed; but he had his own peculiar notions of the etiquette to be observed in a painter's studio, and moreover was in a mood, approaching to ill humour with Burke for his intimacy with Reynolds. Burke called repeatedly to commence the sittings for his portrait, but pre-engagements were pleaded, and a day's notice was demanded-more as a matter of form, it would seem, than of necessity. His patience failed him, and he wrote the following letter: "It has been very unfortunate for me that my time is so irregu larly occupied that I can never with certainty tell beforehand when I shall be disengaged. I waited on you exactly at half an hour after eleven, and had the pleasure of finding you at home; but as usual, so employed as not to permit you to undertake this disagreeable business. I have troubled you with this letter, as I think it necessary to make an excuse for so frequent and importunate intrusions. Much as it might flatter my vanity to be painted by so eminent an artist, I assure you that, knowing I

had no title to that honour, it was only in compliance with the desire often repeated of our common friend, that I have been so troublesome."

It is to the honour of Barry that this letter touched him deeply. He disliked, indeed, its air of distant courtesy and its ironical tone, but Burke had been kind when friends were few and much needed, and he was unwilling to lose him, as well he might. "What am I to understand from all this," was his answer, "surely there must be something in your mind, what is it? I should be glad to know in its full extent, and permit me to say that I ought not to be left in ignorance of any matter that is likely to make a breach between us. As to Dr. Brocklesby's picture, it is a miserable subject to be made the ground of a quarrel with me. I will paint it, as I always was earnestly inclined to do, when I can get a sitting upon the terms that are granted to all other painters. I only begged the notice of a day beforehand, and you well know that much more is required by others, and from the very nature of the thing it must be evident that business cannot be carried on without it."

The reader may be curious to learn how such controversies are carried on between a touchy artist and a fastidious sitter. Burke again wrote to assure Barry that he had no wish to offend him, nor was it from any vanity that he desired to be painted, but merely to oblige Dr. Brocklesby. He had sat for his portrait five times-twice in little, and three times in large, and had always gone to the easel without giving previous notice. "A picture of me," he observed, "is now painting for Mr. Thrale, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and in this manner, and in this only. I will not presume to say that the condescension of some men forms a rule for others. I know that extraordinary civility cannot be claimed as a matter of strict justice. In that view, possibly, you may be right. It is not for me to dispute with

you. I have ever looked up with reverence to merit of all kinds, and have learned to yield submission even to the caprices of men of parts. I shall certainly obey your commands, and send you regular notice whenever I am able."

This idle and uncalled-for debate terminated creditably for both-in reconciliation and renewal of friendship. Barry was ashamed of his obstinacy, and Burke relented towards one whom the world was not using according to his merits. The portrait, which caused the "angry parle," was finished soon afterward, and was considered a good likeness and a skilful work. In this lucrative line of art, he might, no doubt, have obtained distinction, if he could have surmounted his reluctance to commence limner of the population at large. But the poetic feeling of Barry refused all sympathy with sordid looks and vulgar costume, and he was content to starve in the service of that muse who,

"With rapt soul sitting in her eyes,"

desired him to be daring, and to think only of lofty themes.

His next cabinet pictures-Mercury inventing the Lyre, and Narcissus admiring himself in the Water --were much admired among the imaginative. The latter owed its existence to a conversation with his illustrious friend, during the sittings of his portrait. "On what works of fancy are you employed now ?" said Burke. "On this little slight thing," said Barry, holding up the picture, “it is young Mercury inventing the Lyre. The god, you know, found a tortoise shell at break of day on the seashore, and fashioned it into a fine instrument of music." "I know the story," replied Burke, "such were the fruits of early rising-he is an industrious deity, and an example to man. I will give you a companion to it. Narcissus wasting time looking at him