brought the receipts of the treasury on those nights he played such characters as the best vouchers for what he asserted. This, however, brought no conviction to Mossop's mind-'twas "all for Love, or the world well lost"-He quitted Drury-Lane Theatre with disgust, and went to Ireland, where, for one or two seasons, he played with considerable success.

On his return to London about the year 1759, Garrick, forgetting all rival jealousies, again sought him, and again reinstated him in his former parts; but the dæmon of dissatisfaction still pursued him, and in 1761, he quitted Drury Lane and the English Theatre for ever, in search of Irish adventures.

Barry and Woodward at this time were joint Managers of Crow-Street Theatre, Dublin, and knowing Mossop's abilities, and that they would clash less with Barry's powers than with Garrick's, were glad to engage him at a considerable salary. The arrangement of their plan was well laid; and Mossop's abilities being directed to a right point, their list of Tragedies were strengthened in such a manner, as to afford the highest entertainment to the amateurs of the drama. As an exemplification, take the following cast of parts; Ventidius to Barry's Marc Antony, Pierre to his Jaffier, Chamont to his Castalio, Bajazet to his Tamer

lane, Horatio to his Lothario, Caled to his Phocyas, &c. &c. In short, Imperial Tragedy, for such parts, perhaps, was never better sustained.

The Stage thus ably supported, Mossop's fortune and reputation were at full tide, till his unhappy genius again crossed him in the idea of becoming a rival Manager. Barry and Woodward were the first who saw this, and saw in it consequences that would be fatal to both Theatres. To prevent this, they made Mossop the tempting offer of a thousand pounds per annum, with the restriction of only playing twice a week, to relinquish his scheme-but in vain-" aut Cæsar, aut * nullus"-There should be but one Theatre in Ireland, and he would be at the head of it. This was not only the language of his own vanity, but of a number of fashionable females who protected him, and who, without either judgment or discretion, would take him from almost a sinecure situation, to place him at the head of Smock Alley Theatre, under all the responsibilities of such an undertaking, and with a rival and established Theatre in opposition.

The scandalous chronicle of the day gave likewise other reasons for Mossop being prevailed on to become Manager. Several of these females were deep gamblers; and as they had a certain degree of influence from their fashion, and interest amongst

amongst their tradesmen, to favour the receipts of his house, he would be the better enabled to become their dupe in another way. A well-known Countess (long since called to a reckoning, for this and other loose accounts) was at the head of this party, and is said to have played the part of a rook with great rapacity. Thus, though Mossop's first season (from novelty, variety, and the influence of his friends) nominally filled his treasury, he might have parodied the words of Macheath, by saying, "The Stage has done me justice-but the gaming-table has been my ruin."

A paper war likewise ensued about this time between Barry and Mossop, relative to the abrupt manner of the latter's quitting his engagements at Crow Street Theatre, in which the lowest and most scurrilous abuse took place of all reason and argument. The rival newspapers became so disgusting on this account, that the public at large took it up, and either laughed at, or reprobated, the conduct of these soi-disant potentates. The last couplet of an epigram written on this occasion we remember, and which had a considerable share in silencing the dispute, was as follows:

"Then as to the public, it is but á toss-up,

"Whether Mossop, kick Barry-or Barry kick Mossop."

In short, ruin, at last, was the end of this theatrical experiment; for, after struggling in vain for

seven

seven or eight years, and endeavouring to allure the town by all manner of exotic entertainment, Mossop found himself reduced to an absolute state of bankruptcy, and in this situation arrived in London, upon which place he had so wantonly turned his back, broken down in spirits and constitution, and at the mercy of an affronted Manager for a livelihood.

In this state of his fortune, his friends advised him to apply to Mr. Garrick for an engagement; urging, that his talents must recommend him to any Manager; and that, with economy, and the experience of past misfortunes, he had yet time enough to extend his reputation, and secure a competency for old age: but his spirit was too high for this application; he replied to his friends, with some conscious dignity, "that Garrick knew very well that he was in London;" insinuating by this, that the proposal of an engagement should first come from him. The Manager, however, if he knew Mossop was in London, (which he probably did,) would not know it without an official notice; and the season passed off without his making any engagement.

In the summer of the same year, Mossop ac cepted an invitation from a friend (Mr. Smith, a gentleman of considerable fortune, and much attached to him) to take a tour through several

parts of Europe. He returned in about a year afterwards, greatly altered in spirits and appearance. Instead of the smart eagle-eyed character of his youth, he appeared emaciated, thoughtful, and dejected, shunning the company of his for mer friends and associates, and nursing by himself the gloomy melancholy of his mind.

His friends now made another effort to get an engagement for him at Drury Lane-but he would make no application himself, though ready to receive one. None, however, being made, his friends thought to force him on the Manager, by the publication of a pamphlet, wherein the Author not only took infinite pains to set Mossop's powers in the most striking point of view, but took equal pains to degrade the excellencies of a man (Garrick) who was most capable of serving him, by an invidious delineation of the decaying faculties of his mind. "The lustre of his eye," 'twas stated, "was greatly diminished, and the strong expression of his countenance was every day wearing out; his voice was husky, broken, and inarticulate; and, in short, he was so reduced in all his powers, that he could not now tread the stage with any thing like that vigour, with which it was owned he had formerly been the greatest

ornament."

The malevolence of such a pamphlet, our readers will readily see, could only be equalled by

its