Do not we nightly see, under our very noses, Congreve fitted to the last of the present times, (with all the neatness and address of a modern shoe-maker,) and as such recommended by soi-disant critics, as the newest town-made goods for the use of country managers? Do not we see Shakspeare made more natural by daily emendations, additions, and omissions? And have we not frequently seen, for years back, the scene of Diana Trapes totally cut out of the Beggar's Opera, (though upon that scene hinges a principal part of the plot,) merely to save Captain Macheath the trouble of redressing himself? O yes! we have often seen these things; and are, perhaps, doomed to see many more, whilst audiences will suffer their judgments to be counted by-Proxy.

But, to return from this digression, and advert more particularly to the character of Mossop. We must not judge of him from these professional eccentricities: he was led to them principally from his necessities, which, though it must be confessed he in a great degree brought on himself, they were rather the faults of an easy, ductile temper, than any original bad principles. In the career of success, he got up the best and most approved tragedies and comedies, and cast them with strength and judgment. He attended himself regularly at rehearsals, and paid his performers punctually, whilst the receipts of the treasury answered their demands; and could he have confined himself entirely to the duties of his profession, he might have weathered the storm, particularly as he was, in himself, the least of a luxurious or expensive man belonging to the stage. His ruin was the love of gaming; or rather the vanity of being under the wing of female persons of high fashion, who gamed deep: they at first fooled him into this pursuit, under the pretence of supporting his theatre in opposition to Barry and Woodward; and they did it to a degree, but with the secret purpose of bringing grist to their own mills; for what they gave to the stage through their influence or interest, they principally brought back with exorbitant profits to their private purses.


Such was Mossop in his public character; a man who had qualified himself for the stage by a previous course of classical education, and was inducted to it by the hand of genius; without which, all learning, all assiduity, all mechanism of profession, are but as a tinkling cymbal." The departments which he filled in the theatre were exclusively his own; for, except Garrick in Richard, he had no competitor. Holland, indeed, may be said to follow him, but haud passibus equis! It is true, Holland was not deficient in figure

voice, or attitude; and, to people who judged merely by the effect of those powers mechanically employed, he had his admirers; but, alas! the divine fire of the player was wanting; that “unresisting power which storms the breast," and realizes the scene, we looked for in vain. The two Zangas, comparatively speaking, were as fire and water-substance and shadow. In short, this tragedy, though excellent in various parts of the writing, owes its celebrity on the stock list, principally to the powers of Mossop; and as it was revived by him, so it has, in a great measure, died with him; and, like some other high-wrought characters of our best poets, must wait in sullen silence till some master spirit shall arise, who "shall bestride the conqueror of Africa, and its hundred thrones," with equal dignity and triumph.

As a man (abstracted from the seduction of gaming, and its innumerable bad consequences) he was retired, frugal, and abstemious; and as little tainted with the clinquant and vices of his profession, as any man of his time. He is likewise said to have had a heart capable of friendship, and had that happiness of temper to make almosts as many friends as acquaintances. His natural love of independence was such, that he would receive no favours from his nearest friends, even in the lowest declension of his fortune: here, indeed, his pride seemed to be at the highest, as He, in the eud, sacrificed his life to its punctilios.

How miscalculating is the mind of man! Mossop had talents and natural inclinations to be one of the most independent characters in his profession; he added to the powers of conversation, a sincerity of conduct, and a simplicity of manners, that would have gained him respect and honourable friendships; but the vanity of being the idol of a set of Right Honourable Harpies, who seduced him, from base and interested motives, was principally his ruin. In vain he sought to recover in detail what he so prodigally lost in the gross-in vain did he look to the little items of personal disbursements, and the frugal management of his theatre, when the gamingtable nightly presented a gulph of incalculable extravagance.

In short, the fall of this unfortunate man evidently arose from two causes the first, his becoming manager, so as to indulge his self-love in being an universal actor; the second, that of his becoming a gamester, a profession which, in itself, carries with it ruin and disgrace, and is as inimical to fortune, as it is to all the manly and social virtues.



The following lines are meant to describe feelings which the circumstances and the scene (the northern approach to Worthing,) rendered particulary impressive. They are much at your service, and submitted with good wishes to yourself and your Miscellany.

Yours, R. B.]


ARE these the fam'd, the brave SOUTH DOWNS,
That like a chain of pearls appear;

Their pale green sides and graceful crowns?

To freedom, thought, and peace how dear!
To freedom, for no fence is seen;

To thought, for silence soothes the way :
To peace, for o'er the boundless green

Unnumber'd flocks and shepherds stray.

Now, now we've gain'd the utmost height!
Where shall we match the vale below?
The WEALD of SUSSEX, glorious sight,

Old Chankbury, from thy tufted brow,
Oaks, British oaks form all its shade,

Dark as a forest's ample crown;
Yet by rich herds how cheerful made,

And countless spots of harvest brown!

But what's yon southward dark-blue line
Along th' horizon's utmost bound,
On which the weary clouds recline,

Still varying half the circle round?
The Sea! the Sea! my God! the Sea!
Yon sun-beamis on its bosom play!
With milk-white sails expanded free,
There ploughs the bark her cheerful way!

I come, I come, my heart beats high;

The greensward stretches southward still;
Soft in the breeze the heath-bells sigh;
Up, up we scale another hill;

A spot where once the eagle tower'd
O'er Albion's green prinæval charms;
And where the harmless wild-thyme flower'd,
Did Rome's proud legions pile their arms.

And here OLD SISSA, So they tell,

The Saxon monarch, clos'd his days;
I judge they play'd their parts right well,
But cannot stop to sing their praise.
For yonder, near the ocean's brim,

I see, I taste the coming joy;
There MARY binds the wither'd limb,
The mother tends the poor lame boy.

My heart is there-Sleep, Romans, sleep;
And what are Saxon kings to me?
Let me, O thou majestic Deep,

Let me descend to love and thee.
And may thy calm, fair-flowing tides

Bring Peace, and Hope, and bid them live, And Night, whilst wand'ring by thy side, Teach wisdom-teach me to forgive.

Then, when my heart is whole again
And Fancy's renovated wing
Sweeps o'er the terrors of thy reign,

Strong on my soul those terrors bring.
In infant haunts I've dream'd of thee,

And where the crystal brook ran by, Mark'd sands, and waves, and open sea, And gaz'd-but with an infant's eye.

Twas joy to pass the stormy hour

In groves, when childhood knew no more; Increase that joy, tremendous pow'r,

Loud let thy world of waters roar.
And, if the scene reflection drowns,

Or draws too often rapture's tear,
I'll stroll me o'er these lovely DOWNS,
And press the turf, and worship here.



Occasioned by the Death of His Royal Highness


Spoken by MR. RUSSELL, at the Theatre-Royal Richmond, on the Night of his Benefit, Sept. 11, 1805

OF gen'ral mournings, that in other climes,

With frequent shade have mark'd these changeful times,
The source, too oft, with sorrow we may trace
To public guilt, or national disgrace;
More blest, Britannia only droops the head
When Fate unites those worthies with the dead
Whose time with us has run its latest round,
And Age with honour consecrates the ground.
Nations, less happy than our favour'd isle,
Where Freedom, Wealth, and virtuous Beauty smile
Nations, less happy in a parent throne,
Which guards our independence in its own;
Could they this tribute of respect survey,
These sable honours our affections pay,
Well might they envy ev'ry British tear,
Falling for him whose worth we dare revere.
Unlike the sons of Gaul-their tyrant's voice,
When princes die, commands his slaves rejoice.
Our true regret admits of this relief-
However poignant, 'tis not cureless grief:
To Providence we bend, and though we feel,
Adore the hand, which only wounds to heal.
Oh may the numerous remaining line
Of Brunswick round their royal stem entwine;
While that, ne'er bending to a foreign yoke,
Shall greatly flourish, like its nation's oak;
And you, whose loyal union, heart and hand,
Has form'd a phalanx round your native land,
Whose firm, unshaken freedom foil'd the boast
And mock'd the threats of Gaul's rapacious host;
Ye whose wide-spreading patriotic fire,
Has warm'd your friends, and bade your foes retire,
Long may you live, in well-earn'd joys to prove
The rising glories of the land you love.

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