hat surrounded him; and in the very
first scene the magnanimity of the poet's Moor, was exalted to something
of more than human sublimity, by the player. In the disclosing of his
discontent to Isabella, the painting to her of his mental agonies, and
the avowal of his hatred to Alonzo, the emotions which Mossop excited in
the spectators were too awful and interesting to be imagined by those
who have not felt them. The deep and affecting solemnity of his
narrative, interrupted by the occasional flashes of passion which burst
from him, was in strict congeniality with the dreadful elementary storm
in which it is introduced. In the hands of other actors this part makes
little impression.

Hear then. 'Tis twice three years since that great man,
(_Great let me call him for he conquered me_)
Made me the captive of his arm in fight.

The loftiness of the Moor's nature, and his conscious pride were by the
peculiar delivery of the second line, as perfectly unfolded as they
could be by volumes. Again:

One day (_may that returning day be night,
The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year!_)
For something, or for nothing, in his pride
He struck me. (_While I tell it do I live?_)
He smote me on the cheek.

The words comprehended in parentheses, are occasional starts of
digression dictated by rage, and should be uttered passionately, we do
not mean loudly, but with vehement indignation! So Mossop uttered them,
changing his key and speaking the words with the rapidity expressive of
rage--and then, after a struggle, falling down to the solemn level of
his narrative again. These, however, Mr. Kemble spoke rather in a tone
of whining lamentation. The limited organs of Mr. K. might make it
policy in him to do so; but Mr. Cooper has not that plea to offer. Be
that as it may, the character is defaced by it. The Moor's fire is not
supposed to be extinguished; it is only covered up, to break out with
more terrible fury, when the accomplishment of his purpose will allow
it. In going over the sad recital of his woes, to a confidential friend,
the poet, in order the more perfectly to unfold his character, makes the
hidden fire burst forth in momentary blazes. To sink this is to deprive
the character of one of its most essential beauties; to give it the
directly opposite expression of piteous lamentation is, indeed,
reversing the noble character of the Moor.

One of the wonderful excellencies of Mossop in this part was his