Sheridan’s great speech was made.  The orator has concluded his oration; fame was complete, and no more was wanted, Adieu, then, blue-books and parties, and come on the last grand profession of this man of many talents—­that of the wit.  That it was a profession there can be no doubt, for he lived on it, it was all his capital.  He paid his bills in that coin alone:  he paid his workmen, his actors, carpenters, builders with no more sterling metal; with that ready tool he extracted loans from the very men who came to be paid; that brilliant ornament maintained his reputation in the senate, and his character in society.  But wit without wisdom—­the froth without the fluid—­the capital without the pillar—­is but a poor fortune, a wretched substitute for real worth and honest utility.  For a time men forgave to Mr. Sheridan—­extravagant and reckless as he was—­what would long before have brought an honester, better, but less amusing man to a debtor’s prison and the contempt of society; but only for a time was this career possible.

Sheridan has now reached the pinnacle of his fame, and from this point we have to trace that decline which ended so awfully.

Whilst we call him a dishonest man, we must not be supposed to imply that he was so in heart.  It is pleaded for him that he tricked his creditors ‘for the fun of the thing,’ like a modern Robin Hood, and like that forester bold, he was mightily generous with other men’s money.  Deception is deception whether in sport or earnest, and Sheridan, no doubt, made it a very profitable employment.  He had always a taste for the art of duping, and he had begun early in life—­soon after leaving Harrow.  He was spending a few days at Bristol, and wanted a pair of new boots, but could not afford to pay for them.  Shortly before he left, he called on two bootmakers, and ordered of each a pair, promising payment on delivery.  He fixed the morning of his departure for the tradesmen to send in their goods.  When the first arrived he tried on the boots, complaining that that for the right foot pinched a little, and ordered Crispin to take it back, stretch it, and bring it again at nine the next morning.  The second arrived soon after, and this time it was the boot for the left foot which pinched.  Same complaint; same order given; each had taken away only the pinching boot, and left the other behind.  The same afternoon Sheridan left in his new boots for town, and when the two shoemakers called at nine the next day, each with a boot in his hand, we can imagine their disgust at finding how neatly they had been duped.