Mrs. Barry survived her great husband nearly a quarter of a century. Although that great husband did not found a school of acting, he had his imitators. A Barry school required a manly beauty, and an exquisitely-toned voice, such as fall to the lot of few actors. Nevertheless, in 1788, a successor was announced in the person of an Irish player, Middleton, whose real name was Magann. He had abandoned the medical profession for the stage, some obstacles to his reaching which had actually rendered him partially and temporarily insane. He had fine powers of elocution, and in Romeo and Othello reminded the old friends of Barry--perhaps painfully--of their lost favourite. The imitation was, no doubt, strong; but it was stronger off the stage than on; for, with 30s. a week, Middleton strove to live in Barry's sumptuous style. Thereby, he soon ceased to live at all, ending a brief career in abject misery, and leaving his body to be buried by the charity of his fellow-players. Mrs. Barry was sufficiently recovered from the grief of losing her husband, to be able to play Viola, for her benefit, two months after his decease. When she resumed her great part of Lady Randolph, she spoke a few lines, written by Garrick, in memory of the first and the most elegant and perfect of young Norvals. In those lines Barry is thus alluded to:-- "Of the lov'd pilot of my life bereft, Save your protection, not a hope is left. Without that peace your kindness can impart, Nothing can calm this sorrow-beaten heart. Urged by my duty, I have ventur'd here; But how for Douglas can I shed the tear? When real griefs the burden'd bosom press, Can it raise sighs feign'd sorrows to express? In vain will art, from nature, help implore, When nature for herself exhausts her store. The tree cut down on which she clung and grew, Behold, the propless woodbine bends to you; Your soft'ning pow'r will spread protection round; And, though she droops, may raise her from the ground." I will not divide the sketch of the story of Mrs. Spranger Barry from that of the greatest and most worthy of her three husbands. Her father was a gay, well-to-do, but extravagant apothecary in Bath, whose daughter, Miss Street, was one of the belles there, celebrated for her graceful figure, expressive beauty, and rich auburn hair. The handsome and clever girl was jilted by a lover, whose affection for the apothecary's daughter cooled, on a sudden accession of fortune occurring to himself. Poor Ariadne went for solace to the North, where, after some while, she found a Bacchus in a hot-headed, jealous, but seductive actor, named Dancer, who married her, and placed her, nothing loath, upon the stage.