Barry owed much to the generosity of Burke, who had been one of his earliest friends and patrons. It is said that he once quarrelled with the great statesman for attacking the then anonymous work ‘An Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful,’ every line of which the young Irish painter, being unable to buy the book, had copied, and he would entirely have lost control of his temper if Burke had not with a laugh transformed his rage into a whirlwind of delight and passionate admiration, by confessing himself its author.
When Burke arrived, on the evening appointed, at the ruinous, dirty, shabby house in Castle Street, Barry had altogether forgotten the appointment. However he ushered him into his studio-wilderness of dust and cobwebs, gave him a seat, made up the fire, which was smoking, and while it burnt up, went out to purchase some steak, and brought it in wrapped in a cabbage leaf. Placing the meat on a gridiron, he spread a towel over the little round table, and on it placed a couple of plates, a salt-cellar, a little roll of bread, and a dish, which nearly filled it; then, putting the tongs into his visitor’s hands, bade him turn the steak while he went out to fetch the beer. He came back quickly, swearing and grumbling at the wind because it had blown off the frothy head of the stout as he was crossing Titchfield Street, and produced from his pocket a couple of bottles of port. The meal was enjoyed, the evening passed merrily; and Burke afterwards confessed that he had never enjoyed himself more, nor eaten more heartily, even at the most sumptuous feast.
Owing to his impecunious circumstances, Barry had been accustomed to take his meals in cookshops and coffee-houses of the cheaper kind; and Angelo notes as one of his eccentricities his always insisting upon paying for his meal at coffee or cookshop rate wherever he might chance to feed. On one occasion he was invited to dine with Sir William Beechy and some noble guests, and rose at nine o’clock to depart, having as usual placed two shillings upon the table where he had been sitting. The lively knight, who knew “his customer,” followed him from the dining-room into the hall, leaving the door of the former open that his friends might hear.
“What are these for?” asked Sir William, presenting the coins.
“How can you put so preposterous a question? For my dinner to be sure, man.”
“But two shillings is not fair compensation, Barry. Surely it was worth a crown.”
“Baw-baw, man! You know I never pay more.”
“But you have not paid for your wine.”
“Shu-shu! If you can’t afford it, why do you give it? Painters have no business with wine.”
“Barry,” says Angelo, “who boasted of making his dinner on a biscuit and an apple, had no mercy for those who lessened their means by self-indulgence. He was once highly indignant with a lord, who when dining at ‘Old Slaughter’s’ in St. Martin’s Lane—a famous resort of artists and their patrons—had straw laid down before the house to deaden the noise of passing vehicles.”