The father of James Barry, the Irish painter, was a sailor, who was
disgusted with his idle, dreamy, good-for-nothing son. His mother
perceived his natural ability, but tried to dissuade him from study for
the sake of his health. He had therefore to prosecute his art studies in
the face of the greatest difficulties. At length, while yet a boy, he
ventured to send to a public exhibition in Dublin his first matured
production—“St. Patrick’s Arrival on the Coast of Cashel.”
When the exhibition opened, Barry with beating heart entered it with the
crowd. To his infinite delight, it quickly gathered around his picture,
and murmurs of approval arose on every side. Suddenly the throng made
way for one whose judgment none might dispute—the orator, statesman,
and philosopher, Edmund Burke. Having examined the composition closely,
he praised it warmly, ungrudgingly. “_Who_ is the painter?” he asked;
“_Where_ is he?”
Then the unknown stranger, the ill-dressed, pallid little boy, could
contain his fierce delight no longer. “I am the painter!” he exclaimed
from amid the crowd. “You, a boy; impossible!” was the reply from many
lips. But when Edmund Burke advanced to congratulate him, he was
overpowered. He burst into a sudden gush of tears, covered his face with
his hands, and rushed from the room.—_Royal School Series._