none can be named with Essex and Rutland, in Jones's play of the Earl of Essex; in the celebrated scene in which the ring is mentioned, they fairly "drowned the stage in tears." And we have heard many a theatric veteran acknowledge, that although he had considered himself stage-hardened, and as immoveable as the bench that he sat upon, that he could not help shedding tears at this memorable scene.
Little remains now to be said of Mr. Barry, than that about the year 1774, he quitted Drury Lane for Covent Garden, and, on signing articles, precured a considerable addition to his income. But an hereditary gout (which occasionally attacked him from his earliest days) rendered his performances not only unfrequent but imperfect; yet it is but justice to the memory of this luminary of the histrionic art, to declare, that even in this exhausted state of his powers, bowed down with infirmity, and cramped with aches, like the great Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage, he gave his audience an affecting picture of what he once was. His voice, which, to the last period of his theatric life, retained its melodious cadences, and his conception of the poet, being as bold and vigorous as heretofore.
He quitted this earthly stage at the age of fifty-seven, slain by his ancient enemy, the gout, on the 10th of January, 1777, at his house in Norfolk street in the Strand, and was interred privately in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.
Barry was the easiest man in the world to live with as a companion and friend. He had a gift of pleasing in conversation beyond most men, owing more to the manner than the matter. To those who are conversant with the domestic management of actors, it will create no surprise to find that Barry did not confine himself within the limits of his income, which, from the first, was very considerable. One of his greatest pleasures consisted in giving splendid and sumptuous entertainments; and it is
