proves at least the fallacy of that theory which affirms "genius" to be the operation of "a mind of large general powers accidentally directed to a particular pursuit."—This was the hypothesis of Sir J. Reynolds, who likewise confuted it in his practice; for while in his discourses he spoke with comparative contempt of colouring, he made it in his practice the chief object of his ambition; and who, though he lauded the style of Michael Angelo with rapturous enthusiasm, yet never attempted a picture in that style. The fact is, the abstract reasonings of this great artist were borne down by the strong influence of his particular temperament. What accidental influence, or system of discipline could have given Rubens delicacy, or Rembrandt grace? could have made Hogarth an epic painter, or Barry a humorous one?—We do not consider these observations irrelevant, because we think the hypothesis pernicious; nothing is more essential in all pursuits of taste and intellect than that the student should ascertain as speedily as possible, the exact direction of his powers—that he may not be led by a misconception of his own character to waste the energies of his application, in attempting to force a passage through regions which Apollo has barricaded against him.
There have been so many anecdotes told of Barry, all of which have been "highly authenticated," that we almost despair of presenting the reader with one which he has not heard before. The following, however, has never been given to the public in all the detail its merits deserve, and is moreover so graphically characteristic, that we could not answer its omission to our conscience.
He resided in a little house, in Little St. Martin's Lane, with no companions but a venerable cat, and an old Irish woman who served him in the capacity of factotum. He was too much of the stoic philosopher to be over solicitous in the articles of furniture, or the style of neatness; and his house-keeper was of a character little disposed to annoy
