Satiated, it should seem, with the applauses of the theatre, he turned his attention to public and parliamentary speaking.  The vulgar prejudice, that genius cannot expect to succeed in two different walks, for some time operated against him.  But he possessed merit, and he compelled applause.  He now ranks, by universal consent, as an orator and a statesman, with the very first names of an age, that will not perhaps be accounted unproductive in genius and abilities.

It was now generally supposed that he had done with the theatre.  For our own part, we must confess; we entertain all possible veneration for parliamentary and ministerial abilities; we should be mortified to rank second to any man in our enthusiasm for the official talents of Mr. Sheridan:  But as the guardians of literature, we regretted the loss of his comic powers.  We wished to preserve the poet, without losing the statesman.  Greatly as we admired the opera and the comedy, we conceived his unbounded talents capable of something higher still.  To say all in a word, we looked at his hands for the MISANTHROPE of the British muse.

It is unnecessary to say then, that we congratulate the public upon the present essay.  It is meaned only as a jeu d’esprit.  But we consider it as the earnest of that perseverance, which we wished to prove, and feared to lose.  The scene we have extracted, and which, with another, that may be considered as a kind of praxis upon the rules, constitutes the chief part of the alteration, is apparently personal.  How far personal satire is commendable in general, and how far it is just in the present instance, are problems that we shall leave with our readers.—­As much as belongs to Jonson we have put in italics.

    ACT IV

    SCENE 4

    Enter Captain Face, disguised as Lungs, and Kastril.

    FACE. Who would you speak with?

    KASTRIL. Where is the captain?

    FACE.

    Gone, sir, about some business.

    KASTRIL.

    Gone?

    FACE.

    He will return immediately.  But master doctor, his lieutenant
    is here.

    KASTRIL.

    Say, I would speak with him.

    [Exit Face.

    Enter Subtle.

    SUBTLE.

    Come near, sir.—­I know you well.—­You are my terrae
    fili—­that is—­my boy of land—­same three thousand pounds a
    year.

    KASTRIL.

    How know you that, old boy?

    SUBTLE.

    I know the subject of your visit, and I’ll satisfy you.  Let us
    see now what notion you have of the matter.  It is a nice point
    to broach a quarrel right.

    KASTRIL.

    You lie.

    SUBTLE.

    How now?—­give me the lie?—­for what, my boy?