his mother only half
approved of plays and playhouses, and of feasting on fruit forbidden at
home. He gave more than one elegant entertainment to the players, and it
was even said that one or two distinguished geniuses had condescended to
borrow money of him.

And as he polished and added new beauties to his masterpiece, we may be
sure that he took advice of certain friends of his, and that they gave
him applause and counsel. Mr. Spencer, his new acquaintance, of the
Temple, gave a breakfast at his chambers in Fig Tree Court, when Mr.
Warrington read part of his play, and the gentlemen present pronounced
that it had uncommon merit. Even the learned Mr. Johnson, who was
invited, was good enough to say that the piece had showed talent. It
warred against the unities, to be sure; but these had been violated
by other authors, and Mr. Warrington might sacrifice them as well as
another. There was in Mr. W.'s tragedy a something which reminded him
both of Coriolanus and Othello. "And two very good things too, sir!" the
author pleaded. "Well, well, there was no doubt on that point; and 'tis
certain your catastrophe is terrible, just, and being in part true, is
not the less awful," remarks Mr. Spencer.

Now the plot of Mr. Warrington's tragedy was quite full indeed of battle
and murder. A favourite book of his grandfather had been the life of old
George Frundsberg of Mindelheim, a colonel of foot-folk in the Imperial
service at Pavia fight, and during the wars of the Constable Bourbon:
and one of Frundsberg's military companions was a certain Carpzow, or
Carpezan, whom our friend selected as his tragedy hero. His first
act, as it at present stands in Sir George Warrington's manuscript,
is supposed to take place before a convent on the Rhine, which the
Lutherans, under Carpezan, are besieging. A godless gang these Lutherans
are. They have pulled the beards of Roman friars, and torn the veils of
hundreds of religious women. A score of these are trembling within the
walls of the convent yonder, of which the garrison, unless the expected
succours arrive before midday, has promised to surrender. Meanwhile
there is armistice, and the sentries within look on with hungry eyes, as
the soldiers and camp people gamble on the grass before the gate. Twelve
o'clock, ding, ding, dong! it sounds upon the convent bell. No succours
have arrived. Open gates, warder! and give admission to the famous
Protestant hero, the terror of Turks on the Danub