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and an early bias towards that profession of which he became so distinguished an ornament.

About the age of twenty-six he came an adventurer to London, and was introduced to the celebrated Edmund Burke, whose patronage he secured from his strong indications of genius, and by being a countryman of that immortal orator. Burke introduced him to Sir Joshua Reynolds, then only Mr. Reynolds, who domesticated him in his family, and gave every encouragement to his promising talents. At the table of Reynolds Barry much distinguished himself by a strong splash of original thought, and an uncommon fire and intrepidity of genius; for, at no part of his life, was it the custom of Barry to be very diffident of his abilities, or to under-rate himself in his art. His eccentricities, however, were so numerous, and his confidence so arrogant, that Burke and Reynolds not only advised, but procured him the means of travelling, which they wisely judged would serve as well to amend these moral ailings, as to supply him with more correct ideas of professional excellence; and thus, at once, both inform his judgment and improve his general character.

He visited Italy, we believe, in the year 1765. He was not, however, much qualified for a stu dent; his methods of study were capricious and irrational; his self-confidence led him to false measures of himself; his temper was not conformable to the instructions of masters and professors; he was indocile, hot-headed, and stubborn; his time in Italy was divided between slothfulness and quarrels with cotemporary students, and what knowledge he did acquire, and assuredly he brought back much, was by sudden snatches of industry, and occasional irruptions into the province of science, begun with ardour, and too soon checked by habitual indolence.

parts more manly and original, yet as a whole composition, I do not hesitate to pronounce his "Venus Rising from the Sea" to be the best of his works.

The invention of this subject was not, however, purely his own; for, though in his manner of treating it, he became its legitimate father on the canvass, the original thought subsists in the representation of the Greek Poet. Had Anacreon not described the subject, Barry would not have painted it. But this is no objection to the merit of the work; the Painter has a right to avail himself of the Poet. This is not that species of plagiary which robs him of the praise of inven

tion.

He was now elected an Academician; but for any situation that required a character that should possess some associating elements, and a disposition towards acting in concert, Barry was wholly unfit. He was of a turn of temper rebellious and uncontroulable; his notions of independence were those of a savage; he was fierce, proud, and overbearing, and detested all that the forms of the society, and the regulations of his own little platoon, required to be put over him.

At this time Sir Joshua Reynolds was President, and Barry, of whose genius both Burke and himself augured auspiciously, was appointed Professor of Painting upon the vacancy of Mr. Renny. In this situation he was, as usual, indolent, neglectful, and indisposed to all subordination and order: he was five years Professor before he read a single lecture; the Academy was disgusted; he bred a spirit of rebellion among the students, and was very near destroying the establishment. It was at length resolved to get rid of him by expulsion, and peace was once more restored to the society.

His general misconduct lost him the patronage of Sir Joshua and Mr. Burke, and poor Barry, with a discredit brought upon him by his want of prudence, was turned loose upon society to shift for himself.

It is not my intention to give, at this time, a regular account of his professional life. It has not much interest, though it is not without anecdote. I shall probably revert to this topic at another opportunity. I shall now only dwell upon those productions which have given him celebrity in his profession. The world has generally agreed that his master-pieces are the paintings which are exhibited at the Society for the En

He returned in the year 1770 to England. I may not perhaps be exactly correct in my dates; nor is it of importance The generous patronage of Burke and Reynolds was again held out to him; the former laboured most assiduously in his cause, and introduced him to a wide circle of friends. His first celebrated painting, after his return from Italy, was, " Fenus Rising from the Sea." It was this work that brought him into notice; and I do not give my opinion rashly, when I pronounce it to be his best. It was in the true t ste of ancient simplicity; it was executed with a chastity which would have done honour to the schools of Greece: it had origin-couragement of Arts and Manufactures. The ality, strength, delicacy of pencil, and grace. It was conceived in a bold spirit of genius, and executed with the hand and industry of a master. Barry never afterwards excelled it; for though in some of his pieces there is the flash of a more sublime and perfect genius, and an execution of

origin of these works is said to have been produced by a suggestion of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who, in the times of their intimacy, proposed that Barry should employ his pencil to adorn the walls of St. Paul's Cathedral. To this there was an objection, from a suspicion in the minds of

some people of great purity of conscience, and delicacy in every thing that related to religion, that the proposed paintings would accord ill with that simplicity and rejection of exterior ornament which the Protestant Church required. Barry, whether convinced or not by the arguments, was obliged to drop his intention, and accordingly he undertook to paint for the Society of Arts iu the Adelphi the celebrated pictures exhibiting the "Progress of Civilization."

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execute as well as he thought; and above all he wanted humility; for he left a lasting complaint impressed on every one of his pictures, that he was too soon satisfied with himself.

He was chiefly famous for a manly coarseness, and a vigour of imagination; but his science was depraved by eccentricity; his imagination was distempered by a rage of invention which produced quaintness rather than novelty. He wanted grace because he disdained it; he wanted taste, because he knew not in what it consisted; because he knew not that it was the case in which genius must be set, and without which, it lost its powers of general captivation.

But with all that is subtracted from him, so much of solid excellence remains, that I do not hesitate to assert, that he is one of those British Artists who will live; and that the works of West, Hogarth, and Barry, will flourish in the ad

time shall moulder the canvass, and touch with his oblivious hand the names of many, whose genius has been more fortunate, and professional success more conspicuous.

Barry had been employed, previous to his death, upon a work which has occupied many years of his life. It is at once metaphysical, mytholo gical, and religious. The subject was the Origin of Evil, Grief, Pain, &c. &c. We believe it is finished. Latterly, he remitted his labours upon these pictures, for the sake of making a portrait of Lord Nelson, which we understand is left unfinished.

These paintings are certainly the indications a very strong and original genius.-There is something very bold and sublime in the conception, and the strong and nianly parts are finished with much art and industry. They are, indeed, occasionally depraved by a kind of eccentricity, a sort of tortuosity of mind, which infected his whole character; his greatness is not without extravagance; his sublimity is sometimes rather the fury, than the perfection of invention.-miration and increasing praises of posterity, when However, of the more lofty and decided parts of these works, I may venture to pronounce, that the excellence is so uncommon and original, and the defects comparatively so rare and minute, that they must ever distinguish the name of Barry among the British artists.-I must not, however, acquit these pieces with praise, even qualified as this is; justice compels me to say, that in the minor, and what I would call the subsidiary parts of these pictures, there is a want of delicacy of pencil, of grace, of cultivated and refined taste, and likewise of that indescribable something, which, in painting, as in every other art, is the true inspiration and real mystery of genius. In wanting these requisites, which the pictures of this master are undoubtedly without, they want that power of general delectation and pleasure which every beholder discovers, though he may not know to what cause he can impute it. Without entering into a lengthened criticism, permit me to say that the picture, presenting view of the Elysian Fields, and the Angel who is guarding the avenue to Hell, is the best of the collection; the figure of the Angel, the attitude and the expression, are almost beyond what we can expect from any modern genius. This figure is of itself sufficient to preserve the name of Barry to a very late posterity.

I now pass from his works.

The general character of this painter is to be collected from the above remarks. He was a painter who did not want genius, but industry to make him a master of his art. His strength lay in conceiving originally, and with manliness and good sense; but he wanted science and labour to

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In respect to the moral character of Barry, it was not amiable. His temper was uncertain, and occasionally brutal; his oddities rendered it unsafe to mix with him, and they were so offensive, that they could not be submitted to, for the sake of his genius. In his person he was dirty and indifferent; in his deportment a savage; in his opinions fierce and obstinate; in his general conduct various; always unpleasing, harsh, and repulsive.

A subscription was collected for him a few months back; and we believe a purchase of an annuity of 1001. per ann. was made from a banker. Sir Robert Peele, out of respect for Barry, offered the best terms; but he did not live to receive the first quarter of his annuity; of course, the generosity of Sir Robert's bargain rewards itself. I am fearful I have encroached too much upon your limits, and beg leave to remain, Sir, you ́s, &c.

B-L-.

POETRY,

ORIGINAL AND SELECT.

TO SPRING.

GAY Spring may spread her mantle round,
And deck anew the smiling lands,
With blooming flow'rets clad the ground,
And scatter daisies from her hands.
Summer may charm with cloudless skies,
And dress the landskip rich and gay,
May bid the golden harvest rise,

Beneath the ripening beam of day.
Autumn, her mellow beauties bring,

And boast her world of sober charms, On earth's green lap profusely fling

Her fruits, and court us to her arms. Winter may boast his spotless white, And hang with icicles around, Strew his transparent gems in sight,

And deck with frozen dew the ground. Still will the Season's beauties prove Nought to the charms of her I love.

TO AUTUMN.

HAIL! sober Autumn, lovely maid,
I love thy garb of russet hue,
I love to haunt thy leaf-strewn glade,
When deep impearl'd with morning dew.
What tho' thou boast no blooming rose,
No vivid green, no summer glare,
Thy calmness yields the mind repose,
And bid'st thy beauties blossom there.

TO WINTER.

COME, tyrant Winter, issue forth,
Clad in the horrors of the North,
Come and plant thy icy hand,

And rudely desolate our land.
Shake thy hoar and frozen locks,
O'er the barren broken rocks,
And if Ocean dare complain,
Bind him with an icy chain.
Bid thy bleak North East to blow,
Come on mountain clad with snow.
High amid the scowling storm,

Let me view thy frost clad form. Hide yon mountain's haughty brows,

Bid them groan beneath thy snow, Around be all thy terrors hurl'd, And triumph o'er a conquer'd world.

THE MANSION OF REST.

I Talk'd to my fluttering heart,
And I chid its wild wandering ways;

I charged it from folly to part,

And to husband the best of its days;

I bade it no longer admire
The meteors that fancy had drest;
I whisper'd 'twas time to retire,

And seek for a mansion of re-t.
A charmer was list'ning the while,

Who caught up the tone of my lay; Oh! come then she cried with a smile, And I'll shew you the place and the way; I follow'd the witch to her home, And I vow'd to be always her guest; "Never more," I exclaimed, will I roam "In quest of a mansion of rest." But the sweetest of moments will fly; Not long was my fancy beguil'd, For too soon I confess'd, with a sigh, That the Syren deceiv'd while she sinil'd; Deep, deep did she stab the repose

Of my trusting and innocent breast, And the door of each avenue close That led to the mansion of rest. Then Friendship entic'd me to stray

Thro' the long magic wilds of romance; But I found that he meant to betray,

And I shrunk from the Sorcerer's glance; For experience had taught me to know

That the soul which reclin'd on his breast Might toss on the billows of woe,

But ne'er find a mansion of rest. Pleasure's path I determin'd to try, But Prudence I met on the way; Conviction flash'd light from her eye, And appear'd to illumine my day: She cried, (as she shew'd me a grave,

With nettles and wild flowers drest, O'er which the dark cypress did wave,) "Behold there the mansion of rest." She spoke and half vanish'd in air,

For she saw mild religion appear With a smile that would banish despair, And dry up the penitent tear : Doubt and fear from my bosom were driven As, pressing the cross to her breast,

And pointing serenely to heaven,

She shew'd the true mansion of rest.

ODE,

WRITTEN AT THE OPENING OF THE YEAR.
Lo! to his task the infant year

Comes forth; no boding frown severe
Scowls on his brow, with aspect mild,
He seems of dove-ey'd Peace the child!
No numbing wand his young limbs holds,
No hoary vest his corse infolds,

No angry blasts around him rave:The Spirit of the Storm sleeps in his icy cave. A monster wakes, still fiercer far,

His dark brow trench'd with many a scar;
His voice, as loud as Ocean's roar,

His sable armours stain'd with gore;
Stern War! his arm the plain

Crimsons with countless legions slain,

While round him Famine, dark Despair,

TO THE

MEMORY OF THE LATE MRS. DUFF.

BY MR. JERNINGHAM.

To this sad grave no common grief invites,
No stale display of sanctimonious rites :
Domestic Virtues here, a drooping band,
Around the hallow'd spot despiring stand!
And here their lov'd departed Mistress mourn,
From the fond Youth of her affection torn;

And the wild grisly forms of Lust and Rapine Torn from gay Life's short scene in morning's

glare.

Frantic each breathless corse he spurns,

His ardent eye with fury burns,

Scar'd by his lurid frowns, the choir

Of weeping virtues sad retire;

Far from the battle's horrid yell,

In peace and solitude to dwell,

Where no lorn widow's piercing wail,

bloom,

To feed the jaws of the relentless Tomb!
Ah! when she fell beneath Death's tyrant pow'r,
The polish'd world then lost its beauteous flow'r!
In whose blest frame were happily combin'd
The feeling bosom and the illumin'd mind!
A spirit finely touched by Nature's hand,
Prompt to perform when Virtue gave command:

No shriek, no dying groan, hangs heavy on the Prompt on Affliction's wound to pour relief,

gale.

But, with firm gaze, the deathless Muse,
His whirlwind course indignant views;
Sees him, for conquest, and for fame,
Spread wide the wildly-wasting flame;
With lasting infamy she brands
His laurels rent from ravag'd lands;

Then borne on seraph wings sublime,

She turns from fields of blood, and seeks a milder clime.

How long, alas! must Nature mourn Her fairest works by rapine torn, And tremble as the clarion's breath Excites her sons to deeds of death? While, red, before her streaming eyes, The flames from burning hamlets rise, Where, lost her babes, the mother stands, And calls on Heav'n for aid, and frenzied wrings

her hands.

When shall again, at dawning day,
Wak'd by the shrill lark's matin lay,
In safety o'er the furrow'd soil,
The peasant hasten to his toil;
And, at mild eve, his labour done,
Blithe carol to the setting sun;
Blest once more in his lowly cot,

To clasp his wife belov'd, each gloomy care forgot?

Soon may ye dawn, auspicious hours!

Then bright-ey'd Pleasure, crown'd with flow'rs,

Shall lead the dance in shady dell;
While feeble Age past woes shall tell,

And gain a sigh from Pity meek:

Then rosy Love, with dimpled cheek,

His light hair floating round his head,

Shall to the laughing gale his snowy banner spread.

No. I. Vol. I.

And bind the bleeding artery of Grief,

Friendship exclaim'd, while bursting tears ran

o'er,

"My prime, my stedfast fav'rite is no more!" Affection, to the bosom still more dear, Shrunk at th' event, and dropp'd her warmest

tear;

Religion rais'd her sacred hand on high,
And said, "See Innocence ascend the sky!"

ANACREONTIC.

ADDRESSED TO BELINDA.

SHUN the glass, Belinda cries,
Wine holds but a brief dominion;
And those half-animated eyes

Will steal no heart in ny opinion.

Shun the bottle's tempting sight,

And give to other joys the night.

What, Belinda, dost thou say?

Wine can in thy absence cheer me;
Would'st thou take the charm away

That brings thy beauteous image near me?
Wine, though distant thou may'st be,
Gives me, dearest maid! to thee.

When given 'mong convivial friends,
Toasts various as the crew assembled;
Though Delia from my tongue ascends,
Belinda on its accents trembled,

Whate'er my truant tongue decree,
My heart, Belinda, drinks to thee.
Abuse not wine then, dearest maid,
The sad resource to which I'm driven;
Who drinks thy coolness to evade,
By thee sure ought to be forgiven.

Intoxicated though he be,

Less with the slander'd wine than thee.
Q. IN THE COrner,

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A LEARNED LADY,
VISITED IN HER STUDY BY OBERON, KING OF
THE FAIRIES.

WHAT saw he there? no silken robes,
But quadrants, telescopes, and globes,
In learn'd confusion pil'd,

And pickled toads, and ponderous books,
And pot-hooks, diagrams, and crooks-
The Elfin monarch smil'd.

Bertha was in a reverie,

An open folio on her knee,

Her finger on her cheek; "Ho, ho," quoth Oberon, "I vow The mystery's unravel'd now

The lady studies Greek."

The king advanc'd, and bowing said, "Your eyes are bright, my charining maid,

But one seems somewhat bloody."

"Ah, sire,' cried Bertha, with a sigh, Who can preserve a cloudless eye,

And stick to midnight study?' "Your fingers, too, would sure display Their rosy tips more clear, if they

From stains were freed."'Tis only ink, my lord, and know I prize the glorious tints that shew, I write as well as read.' "Mistaken maid, the king replied, Why shall the gloomy mists of pride

Extinguish beauty's beam? Ah why, why cause the female mind, For ev'ry native sweet design'd,

With pedant's weeds to teem!"

PRAISE OF WAR.
ALL hail to War! the Warrior's hardy life
Exalts the vigour of the glowing mind,
The body strengthens midst the martial strife,

And forms to nobler acts and thoughts refin'd. War has its good, from slumber's listless chain

It wakes the gallant youth, and points to fame; Here-here's the palm, who struggles may obtain The palm of Virtue dear-a deathless name. War has its good, amidst its virtuous strife All vulgar fancies vanish from the soul, The art it teaches of contemning life,

And swells above the Passions' low controul.All hail to War! 'tis noble souls alone,

Who dauntless can the steps of glory tread; All hail to War! that gives the immortal crown, And yields a place among the noblest dead. What image that, which, veil'd in clouds of Heav'n,

A nation follows with applauding tears? 'Tis thee! bright Nelson, to thy country giv'n, The glorious stock of war such harvest bears!

All hail to War! it huils just vengeance down
On the false foe, regardless of all laws:-
To arms! to arms! let's rush to gain the crown,
Or nobly fall in our lov'd country's cause.

THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.

O LEAVE this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the Beechen Tree! Though bush or flow'ret never grow My dark unfruitful shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; Nor fruits of Autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murm'ring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the Beechen Tree! Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wint'ry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless, solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bow'r First spent its sweet and sportive hour; Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made, And on my trunk's surviving frame Carv'd many a long forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breath'd upon this sacred ground; By all that Love hath whisper'd here, Or Beauty heard with rayish'd ear; As Love's own altar honour me, Spare, woodman, spare the Beechen Tree!

A WINTER SONG.

Now Winter is come, with his cold chilling breath,

And the verdure has dropp'd from the trees; All nature seem'd touch'd with the finger of death, And the streams are beginuing to freeze. When wanton young lads on the rivers can slide, And Flora attends us no more;

When abundance awaits on your bright fire-side, Forget not the wants of the Poor!

When the cold feather'd snow-drops in fleeces descend,

And whiten the prospect around;

When the keen cutting wind from the North does attend,

Hard incrustating over the ground; When the hills and the dales are all candied with white;

When the rivers congeal to the shore; When the bright twinkling stars shall proclaim a cold night,

Then remember the state of the Poor!

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