three syllables or four? And do you
know from whose design I stole that figure of Tragedy which adorns the
initial G of this chapter?

Now, it has been said how Mr. George in his youth, and in the long
leisure which he enjoyed at home, and during his imprisonment in the
French fort on the banks of Monongahela, had whiled away his idleness by
paying court to Melpomene; and the result of their union was a tragedy,
which has been omitted in Bell's Theatre, though I dare say it is no
worse than some of the pieces printed there. Most young men pay their
respects to the Tragic Muse first, as they fall in love with women who
are a great deal older than themselves. Let the candid reader own, if
ever he had a literary turn, that his ambition was of the very
highest, and that however, in his riper age, he might come down in his
pretensions, and think that to translate an ode of Horace, or to turn a
song of Waller or Prior into decent alcaics or sapphics, was about the
utmost of his capability, tragedy and epic only did his green unknowing
youth engage, and no prize but the highest was fit for him.

George Warrington, then, on coming to London, attended the theatrical
performances at both houses, frequented the theatrical coffee-houses,
and heard the opinions of the critics, and might be seen at the Bedford
between the plays, or supping at the Cecil along with the wits and
actors when the performances were over. Here he gradually became
acquainted with the players and such of the writers and poets as were
known to the public. The tough old Macklin, the frolicsome Foote,
the vivacious Hippisley, the sprightly Mr. Garrick himself, might
occasionally be seen at these houses of entertainment; and our
gentleman, by his wit and modesty, as well, perhaps, as for the high
character for wealth which he possessed, came to be very much liked in
the coffee-house circles, and found that the actors would drink a
bowl of punch with him, and the critics sup at his expense with great
affability. To be on terms of intimacy with an author or an actor has
been an object of delight to many a young man; actually to hob and nob
with Bobadil or Henry the Fifth or Alexander the Great, to accept a
pinch out of Aristarchus's own box, to put Juliet into her coach, or
hand Monimia to her chair, are privileges which would delight most young
men of a poetic turn; and no wonder George Warrington loved the theatre.
Then he had the satisfaction of thinking that